ething almost as good," said Harris. "It was water the boys came down
here in search of; and they've tapped five barrels of sirup in the
operation, and finally they've stuck the gimlet into a cask of--taste
on't."

Frank knew what it was by the smell. It was not the first time he had
smelt whiskey; or tasted it, either. But hitherto he had stopped at the
taste, having nothing but his curiosity to gratify. Now, however, he bad
something else to gratify--a burning thirst of the body, aggravated by
his feverish excitement, and a burning thirst of the soul, which demanded
stimulus of any kind whatsoever that would allay the inward torment.

And so he drank. He did not love the liquor, although the rank taste of
it was ameliorated by a liberal admixture of sirup. But he felt the
internal sinking and wretchedness of heart and stomach braced up and
assuaged by the first draught; so he took another. And for the same
reason he indulged in a third. And so it happened that his head began
shortly to swim, his eyes to see double, and things to look queer to them
generally. The dim hold of the vessel might have been the pit of
darkness, and the obscure grinning faces of his comrades might have been
those of imps therein abiding, for aught he knew to the contrary, or
cared. He began to laugh.

"What's the matter, Frank?"

"Nothing," he said, thickly; "only it's so droll." And he sat down on a
cask, laughing again with uncontrollable merriment--at nothing; an
infallible symptom that a person is either tipsy or a fool. But Frank was
not a fool. _Ergo:_ he was tipsy.

"Get him up as quick as we can, boys," he heard some one saying, "or else
we can't get him up at all."

"Better leave him here till he gets over it," said another. "That'll be
the best way."

"Who'd have thought a little dodger like that would upset him?" said
somebody else. "By George we'll all get found out, through him."

"Whads mare?" said Frank, meaning to ask, "What is the matter?" but
somehow he could not make his organs of articulation go off right. "'Zis
wachecall drung?" (Is this what you call drunk?)

"Can ye walk?"--He recognized the voice of his friend Tucket.--"It's too
bad to leave him here, boys. We must get him to his berth 'fore he's any
worse."

"Zhue, Sef?" (Is it you, Seth?) Frank, with the help of his friend, got
upon his feet. "No, I don' breeve I'm drung; I be bernaliddlewile;"
meaning to say he did not believe he was intoxicated, and to