I
have said that, though a heavy drinker by nature, Alten is a strict
abstainer at sea. Accordingly I produced a small flask of rum, half-way
through dinner, and helped myself to a liberal tot, placing the liquor
between us on the table. As the sight met his eyes and the aroma
greeted his nostrils, a gleam of joy flashed across his face, to be
succeeded by a frown.
With an amiable smile I proffered the flask to him, remarking at the
same time: "You don't drink at sea, do you?"
In a thick voice he muttered, "No! Yes--no! thank you."
With an air of having noticed nothing, I resumed my meal, but out of
the corner of my eye I watched his left hand on the table near the
flask. It was most interesting, all the veins stood out like ropes, and
his knuckles almost burst through the skin.
This went on for about thirty seconds, when he choked out something
about needing a breath of fresh air. As he got up his face was brick
red, and I almost thought he'd have a fit.
Whether by accident or design he pulled the cloth as he got out from
between the settee and the table and upset the flask.
He was apparently incapable of apologizing, for he rushed up on deck.
A few minutes later the navigating officer came down and asked what was
up?
I said: "What do you mean?"
He said: "Well, the Captain came up just now, swearing like a trooper,
and told me to get to the devil out of it; it didn't seem advisable to
question him, so I got out of it and came down.
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