He drew a
lurid picture of the captain's dash across the forms of lady passengers
sleeping inside a curtained space on deck, and his location of the area
of disturbance with an ax just in time to prevent a disaster.
The carpenter busied himself with sawing and hammering during the whole
of the next two days, for the _Andromeda_ revealed many gaps in her
woodwork, but the escapade of an errant ham-bone was utterly eclipsed
by a new sensation. At daybreak one morning every drop of water in the
vessel's tanks suddenly assumed a rich, blood-red tint. This unnerving
discovery was made by the cook, who was horrified to see a ruby stream
pouring into the earliest kettle. Thinking that an iron pipe had
become oxidized with startling rapidity, he tried another tap.
Finally, there could be no blinking the fact that, by some uncanny
means, the whole of the fresh water on board had acquired the color if
not the taste of a thin Burgundy.
Coke was summoned hastily. _Noblesse oblige_; being captain, he
valiantly essayed the task of sampling this strange beverage.
"It ain't p'ison," he announced, gazing suspiciously at the little
group of anxious-faced men who awaited his verdict. "It sartinly ain't
p'ison, but it's wuss nor any teetotal brew I've tackled in all me born
days.
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