"My lad," said the skipper, "it's Dibbs' business to mix sailors'
liquors so's they don't know whether they're standing on their heads or
their heels. He's the most wonderful mixer in Christendom; takes a
reg'lar pride in it. Many a sailorman has got up a ship's side, thinking
it was stairs, and gone off half acrost the world instead of going to
bed, through him."
"We'll have a easy job of it, then," said the mate. "I b'leeve we could
ha' managed it without that, though. 'Tain't quite what you'd call
sport, is it?"
"There's nothing like making sure of a thing," said the skipper
placidly. "What time's our chaps coming aboard?"
"Ten thirty, the latest," replied the mate. "Old Sam's with 'em, so
they'll be all right."
"I'll turn in for a couple of hours," said the skipper, going towards
his berth. "Lord! I'd give something to see old Berrow's face as his
chaps come up the side."
"P'raps they won't git as far as that," remarked the mate.
"Oh, yes they will," said the skipper. "Dibbs is going to see to that. I
don't want any chance of the race being scratched. Turn me out in a
couple of hours."
He closed the door behind him, and the mate, having stuffed his clay
with the coarse tobacco, took some pink note-paper with scalloped edges
from his drawer, and, placing the paper at his right side, and squaring
his shoulders, began some private correspondence.
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