It was an impulse. Always as black and bitter as gall. There was a fourth story; but he never told either Ruth or McClintock about this. As if he read her thought, he spoke it aloud. ’ ‘Gammon!’ burst from the captain, who had just tossed off a glass of Madeira. Too much, perhaps. “Can I bring you anything, sir—a whisky and soda, or a liqueur? You’ll excuse me, sir, but you haven’t touched your coffee. Don’t think it was anything better than fever—or a bit beautiful. We want to celebrate, and we want you to help us. ” “I know—” said Ramage, with sympathy. The natural gaiety of the place seemed to have affected them both.
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