Watts was both charmed and surprised when the friendly skipper
joined in the concluding lines in his own language. But his pleasure
was short-lived. Coke's inflamed visage glowered into the mess room.
"Sink me if you ain't a daisy!" he roared, pouncing on a three-quarters
filled bottle of rum. "D'you fancy we're goin' to land you at Maceio
cryin' drunk? No, sir, not this time. Over it goes, an' if you ain't
dam careful, over you go after it!"
Watts could have wept without the artificial stimulus of the rum. To
see good liquor slung into the sea in that fashion--well, it was a sin,
that's wot it was! But Coke's furious eye quelled him; and revel and
song ceased.
Above, on the bridge, Hozier smiled sourly at the squall which had so
suddenly beset the fair argosy of the convivial-minded Watts. He tried
to invest the incident with an excess of humor. Any excuse would serve
to still certain disquieting doubts that were springing into alarming
activity. Had he gone the best way to work in allaying Iris's
conscience-stricken qualms? Was he justified in adopting such a bold
line with De Sylva? Could it be possible--no, he refused to harbor any
mean thought of Iris. She loved him, he was sure; his love for her was
at once a torment and an excruciating bliss, and both of these wearing
sensations sadly detracted from the efficiency of the officer of the
watch.
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