CHAPTER XXV
THREE PRESSED MEN
While the occupants of the parlour were sipping punch
those of the taproom had gone systematically through the
different stages of inebriety—the friendly, the argumentative,
the captious, the communicative, the sentimental, the
quarrelsome, the maudlin-affectionate, and the extremely
drunk. By nightfall, neither Smoke-Jack, Bottle-Jack, nor
Slap-Jack could handle a clay-pipe without breaking it, nor
fix their eyes steadily on the candle for five consecutive
moments. Notwithstanding, however, the many conflicting
opinions that had been broached during their sitting, there
were certain points on which they agreed enthusiastically—that
they were the three finest fellows under the sun, that
there was no calling like seamanship, no element like salt
water, and no craft in which any one of them had yet sailed
so lively in a seaway as this, which seemed now to roll
and pitch and stagger beneath their besotted senses. With
a confirmed impression, varied only by each man's own
experience, that they were weathering a gale under considerable
difficulties, in a low latitude, and that it was their
watch on deck, though they kept it somewhat unaccountably
below, all three had gone through the abortive ceremony
they called "pricking for the softest plank," had pulled
their rough sea-coats over their heads, and lain down on the
floor among the spittoons, to sleep out the dreamless sleep
of intoxication.
Long before midnight, Butter-faced Bob, looking in, well satisfied, beheld his customers of the afternoon now transformed into actual goods and chattels, bales of bone
