May I offer you a whet? Our seaman’s drink, that we call grog – are you acquainted with it? It goes down gratefully enough, at sea. Simpkin, bring us some grog. Damn that fellow – he is as slow as Beelzebub … Simpkin! Light along that grog. God rot the flaming son of a bitch. Ah, there you are. I needed that,’ he said, putting down his glass.
Grog.
