Then, to my amazement, weeping bitterly, he rolled into a bunk on his back and immediately snored off to sleep.
The harpooner and I drank on, grinning in a superior way to each other over Scotty's plight.

The last flask was opened, and we drank it between us, to the accompaniment of Scotty's stertorous breathing.

Then the harpooner faded away into his bunk, and I was left alone, unthrown, on the field of battle.
I was very proud, and John Barleycorn was proud with me.

I could carry my drink.

I was a man.