"As for you, ye divil," Terence continued, "faith, what wit' yer
English tweeds an' the fancy cut av thim, an' yer lack av the brogue
an' the broad _a_ av ye, I thought, begorra, ye were a dirrty Far
Down! God love ye, Michael, but 'tis the likes av you I'm proud to be
ship-mates wit'."

"But you said you were from Belfast, Terence."

"So I am. I was borrn there, but me parents--the Lord 'a' merrcy on
their sowls--moved back to Kerry."

"Terence!"

"What is it, Michael, me poor lad?"

"Do you ever drink on duty? I don't mean with your superiors--"

The chief chuckled. He knew what Murphy was alluding to.

"I do," he replied, "wit' me equals."

"'Tis a pity, Terence, that man Schultz has the key to my state-room
in his pocket. Now if you could manage to tap that Dutchman on the
head with something hard and heavy, take the key out of his pocket and
throw him overheard, you could let me out of this purgatory I'm in.
Then I wouldn't be surprised if the sight of me and the absence of Mr.
Schultz would put a bit of heart in that little cockney steward--and
maybe he'd bring a drink to hearten you for what's ahead of you this
night."