She began at once a hasty readjustment of her hair, while Ramage parleyed with inaudible interrogations. Cursing himself for his inertness, Jack soon shook off this drowsiness, and set to work in earnest. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. Smith, now, being more than half-seas over, became very uproarious, and, claiming the attention of the table, volunteered the following DRINKING SONG.
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