With reticence and modesty present, I could never have dared tell Scotty my small-boat estimate of him.

But it is ever the way of John Barleycorn to loosen the tongue and babble the secret thought.
Scotty, or John Barleycorn, or the pair, was very naturally offended by my remarks.

Nor was I loath.

I could whip any runaway sailor seventeen years old.

Scotty and I flared and raged like young cockerels, until the harpooner poured another round of drinks to enable us to forgive and make up.