“Comrade, it’s your turn,” said Forbes, addressing old Malcolm Cameron. “Maybe you’ll be giving us your imitation of the skirl of the bagpipes.”
“Man, it’s too dry work,” Cameron replied. “If I had a wee drop of liquor—But it’s no use asking for that.”
“By the way, Carew,” said Captain Rudstone, “as I was overhauling that heap of rubbish in the cellar this morning, I pulled out a small cask. Could it contain anything drinkable?”
I was on my feet like a shot.
“Come; we’ll see!” I cried. “Lead the way!”
I followed the captain to the cellar and we found the cask. I quickly broached it, and to my delight it, contained what I had scarcely ventured to hope for—a fine old port wine.
“Where did it come from?” asked the captain, smacking his lips.
“My father used to have it sent to him from England,” I replied, “and this cask must have been mislaid and covered up.”
“Your father?” muttered the captain: and he gave me one of those strange looks that had so mystified me in the past.
“Yes, he was a judge of wine, I believe,” I answered. “Come, we’ll go up. Cameron can wet his whistle now, and we’ll all be the better for a little sound port.”