We are not pigs. We want a hand in running things, and we want a portion of rum served at meals, as every decent ship allows. We want—“
“Oh, so it's drink, not eating,” satirized Madden.
“Rum's our right as sailormen,” mumbled Galton.
“Rum in this climate?” Ridicule tinctured the American's tone. “Smith, I believe you once proposed to write an article on Climate and Alcoholism.” He turned to the men. “Do you fellows want to build a fire inside yourselves when your lungs and hearts are strained to breaking already?”
“It cools you off in hot weather,” answered a voice in the crowd.
“Cools nothing! It heats you up.” He leaned forward and tapped the table decisively at each word, “It won't be served, y'understand!” His last tap was a thump. “I'm boss here—no rum! And I'll tell you right now, I'm going to cut your rations one-third, too—hear? Now, get out, all of you—move out o' my cabin!”
