It must be done in fair weather, and in a way-- Fill your glass and I'll fill mine-- Capital rum this.

You talk of my gills turning white; before long we shall see whose keeps their color best, mine or yours, my boy." There was a silence, during which Hudson was probably asking himself what Wylie meant; for presently he broke out in a loud but somewhat quivering voice: "Why, you mad, drunken devil of a ship's carpenter, red-hot from hell, I see what you are at, now; you are going--" "Hush!" cried Wylie, alarmed in his turn.

"Is this the sort of thing to bellow out for the watch to hear?
Whisper, now." This was followed by the earnest mutterings of two voices.

In vain did the listener send his very soul into his ear to hear.

He could catch no single word.