from his locker a large flask full of the required elixir, and proceeded to mix himself a long, strong tumblerful. After the Major’s rudeness in the matter of the half-crown, it impossible for any sailor of spirit to take the first step towards reconciliation.
Thirst is a great leveller. By the time the refreshed Puffin had penetrated half-way down his glass, the Major found it impossible to be proud and proper any longer. He hated saying he was sorry (no man more) and wouldn’t have been sorry if he had been able to get a drink. He twirled his moustache a great many times and cleared his throat—it wanted more than that to clear it—and capitulated.
“Upon my word, Puffin, I’m ashamed of myself for—ha!—for not taking my defeat better,” he said. “A man’s no business to let a game ruffle him.”
Puffin gave his alto cackling laugh.
“Oh, that’s all right, Major,” he said. “I know it’s awfully hard to lose like a gentleman.”
He let this sink in, then added:
“Have a drink, old chap?”
Major Flint flew to his feet.
“Well, thank ye, thank ye,” he said. “Now where’s that soda water you offered me just now?” he shouted to the steward.
The speed and completeness of the reconciliation was in no way remarkable, for when two men quarrel whenever they meet, it follows that they make it up again with corresponding frequency, else there could be no fresh quarrels at all. This one had been a shade more acute than most, and the drop into amity again was a shade more precipitous.
Major Flint in his eagerness had put most of his
