“The boys,” said the captain, alluding to the gamblers, “are mighty sharp in the eye, and like as not they’d see through my little game, and then where’d my reputation be?  Speaking of the boys reminds me of Harry Genang, that cleaned out that rich Kentucky planter at bluff one night, and then swore off gambling for life, and gave a good-by supper aboard the boat.  ’Twas just at the time when Prince Imperial Champagne came out, and the whole supper was made of that splendid stuff.  I guess I must have put away four bottles, and if I’d known how much he’d ordered, I could have carried away a couple more.  I’ve always been sorry I didn’t.”

Fred wondered if there was any subject of conversation which would not suggest liquor to the captain; he even brought himself to ask if Crayme had seen the new Methodist Church at Barton since it had been finished.

“Oh, yes,” said the captain; “I started to walk Moshier home one night, after we’d punished a couple of bottles of old Crow whisky at our house, and he caved in all of a sudden, and I laid him out on the steps of that very church till I could get a carriage.  Those were my last two bottles of Crow, too; it’s too bad the way the good things of this life paddle off.”

The captain raised himself in his berth, sat on the edge thereof, stood up, stared out of the window, and began to pace his room with his head down and his hands behind his back.  Little by little he raised his head, drooped his hands, flung himself into a chair, beat the devil’s tattoo on the table, sprang up excitedly, and exclaimed: 

“I’m going back on all the good times I ever had.”

“You’re only getting ready to try a new kind, Sam,” said Fred.

“Well, I’m going back on my friends.”

“Not on all of them; the dead ones would pat you on the back, if they got a chance.”

“A world without whisky looks infernally dismal to a fellow that isn’t half done living.”

“It looks first-rate to a fellow that hasn’t got any backdown in him.”

“Curse you!  I wish I’d made you back down when you first talked temperance to me.”

“Go ahead!  Then curse your wife—­don’t be afraid; you’ve been doing it ever since you married her.”

Crayme flew at Macdonald’s throat; the younger man grappled the captain and threw him into his bunk.  The captain struggled and glared like a tiger; Fred gasped between the special efforts dictated by self-preservation: 

“Sam, I—­promised to—­to see you—­through—­and I’m—­going to—­do it, if—­if I have to—­break your neck.”

The captain made one tremendous effort; Fred braced one foot against the table, put a knee on the captain’s breast, held both the captain’s wrists tightly, looked full into the captain’s eyes, and breathed a small prayer—­for his own safety.  For a moment or two, perhaps longer, the captain strained violently, and then relaxed all effort, and cried: