Could we drink with one, and not the other?
And Pete Holt, my own hunter (lost next year in the Mary Thomas, with all hands), called a round.

The time passed, the drinks continued to come on the bar, our voices rose, and the maggots began to crawl.

There were six hunters, and each insisted, in the sacred name of comradeship, that all hands drink with him just once.

There were six boat-steerers and five boat-pullers and the same logic held with them.

There was money in all our pockets, and our money was as good as any man's, and our hearts were as free and generous.
Nineteen rounds of drinks.