“Captain Thomas Pratt, you forget yourself. I am not accustomed to being addressed in that fashion, and you will please remember that I am a passenger on this craft—this miserable apology for a schooner—and did not come here to be sworn at!”
The old boy was on his mettle, and Pratt saw it.
“No offense meant, Mr. Warriner, but I insist that your having that brandy set on fire was a rash proceeding.”
“Brandy! That was not brandy. Do you suppose I never saw a plum-pudding before? If that had been the brandy I gave that imp of Satan” (pointing to the cook) “it would never have blazed up like that. And what foul odor did we smell when he poured the stuff around the pudding? What odor do we smell now? Kerosene, or I’m no judge.”
“Kerosene!” echoed the Cap’n.
I began to think the passenger knew what he was talking about. All of us smelled oil, and we cast our eyes on Cornwallis. He looked as innocent as a lamb.
“Gents, dat ain’t possible,” said he, his black face shining like polished ebony.
“We will see about that,” answered Warriner. “Let’s taste the sauce—I’ll warrant it’s full of kerosene too.” He took some in a spoon and smelled of it before putting his tongue to it.
“Curious,” he muttered, “there is no odor of oil or brandy either.”
Then the old chap tasted it.