They took hold of each other and went sliding and slipping along the iron deck, now skating down hill, now climbing a sharp tilt, shoulders hunched against the gusty spume, until they reached Smith's little cabin past the mess hall. Here they paused and rapped on the door. As this could not have been heard inside for the wind and the waves and the groaning of the dock, they pushed open the shutter.
Madden no sooner entered than his nostrils caught a pervading odor of alcohol. The Englishman's long figure lounged fully dressed on a bunk; a demijohn was jammed behind his kit bag to keep it from rolling.
“Smith!” called Madden, “I'll have to ask you to stand watch to-night; nearly all the navvies are sick.”
Caradoc lifted his head from the bunk and blinked at the two men in the door. “What?” he asked vacantly.
“You're to stand watch to-night,” Madden raised his voice.
“Stand watch!” cried the Englishman, sitting up, his face flushing darkly under the bracket lamp. “You have turned master, haven't you
