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And then feeling for his pocket-flask, filled by handsome Ann, "as a last night-cap," he turned into the little cavern, where the school-boys, on a Saturday outing, often played "pirates," for his breath was gone and his eyes were drenched with salt scud. Then, a half smothered cry arose, as the three waiting thugs leaped upon their prey. Simpson was taken off his guard!
It was within an hour of sunset when, having snatched a hasty impromptu meal and provided themselves with a few sandwiches and a well-filled pocket-flask each, as well as a liberal supply of cartridges, the four hunters left the Flying Fish on their way to the ambush which they had arranged.
We neither of us acknowledge it in words, but we both feel that hours may pass before the guide discovers us again. The penetrating damp slowly strengthens its clammy hold on me. My companion's pocket-flask of sherry has about a teaspoonful of wine left in the bottom of it. We look at one another having nothing else to look at in the present state of the weather and we try to make the best of it.
Sir John himself moved up and down in the throng, speeding his parting guests, criticising their horseflesh, offering an extra wrap to one, assuring himself that another had his pocket-flask charged for a long night ride.
As he finished he offered an incoherent prayer of thankfulness, and the sympathetic Mr. Shack drew forth his pocket-flask and offered it to the agitated sufferer; but Mr. Todd, who could probably drink more whisky and feel it less than any other man in the pirate crew, declined the poison with a shiver of abhorrence. Then Mr.
"Does the fellow want to smother himself in a night like this!" was his remark. The truth was that, though his hands and head were burning, North's teeth chattered with cold. Perhaps this was the reason why, when landed and out of eyeshot of the crew, he produced a pocket-flask of rum and eagerly drank.
"Rebels," says he, meaning those who speak their mind and write of things as they see them, "must be drowned in a babble of words." And then HELEN BULLITT LOWRY, the exponent of the cocktailored young lady of today, averring that to the pocket-flask, that milepost between the time that was and the time that is, we owe the single standard of drinking.
Gondocori follows, and as I seize one hand he finds and grasps the other, and we pull out of the drift the negro's apparently lifeless body. "He is dead," says the cacique. "I don't think so. Raise him up, and let the sun shine on him." I take out my pocket-flask and pour a few drops of aguardiente down his throat.
"He believes it as surely as he believes in Heaven. He thinks you are his child Mary Dane's daughter." "Who was Mary Dane?" "Your father's sister by marriage done to death by Carl Walraven." Mollie turned very pale. "Tell me all," she said. "Begin at the beginning. Here, drink this it is wine." She had brought a pocket-flask with her.
Gutch, whose pocket-flask was empty, and who began to wipe tears away, "she's treated me hard has Jane Baylis, never allowing me a little comfort such as a lady of my age should have, and when I hears the two of you a-talking this morning the other side of that privet hedge, thinks I, 'Now's the time to have my knife into you, my fine madam! And I hope I done it."
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