Caradoc dropped the little cap and came to the bunk.
“Side hurt, old man?” he asked anxiously.
“Yes—no—nothing the matter.”
“Oh, maybe you don't like this odor—forgot you didn't drink.” He stepped quickly to the kit bag, replaced the bottle and cap inside and closed it. Like many alcohol users he labored under the delusion that alcohol was not offensive on his breath.
“Nervous shock you received seemed to upset you more than the punch,” he diagnosed in a concerned voice. “You Americans are a high-strung nation.” He paused a moment philosophically. “I daresay you're right about not drinking spirits. With your nervous organism, it would set you on fire. But our foggy English climate and stodgy people call for it. Sets our pulses going. A thought just here—Climate and Alcoholism. Not a bad subject for a scientific investigation, is it?”
Madden grunted.
“I'll blow out the light unless you'll have me rub some more of that villainous stuff on your ribs?”
