"Gimme a drink--an expensive drink, one that'll cost five bob," he demanded of the barman. "You'd better have a bottle o' brandy," said the barman. "I wants the best." "This is Hennessy's forty star brandy," said the liar behind the bar. "There's no better in the world." And Geordie retreated with the bottle to his corner and took a long drink of a poisonous compound which contained as much insanity in it as a small lunatic asylum. He came back to the bar presently and told the barman that he was a millionaire. "I own half Newcastle and a lot of Bourke Street, Melbourne, and a baker's dozen of ships, and lumps of London!" said Geordie. "Lend me a thousand pounds till to-morrow," said the barman. "I like you--hic--I'll do it," said Geordie, and with that he fell headlong and forgot his wealth. They dragged him outside on the veranda and let him lie in the cool of the evening. He was picked up there two hours later by Jack Braby and some of the starboard watch and taken on board. "He let on he was a millionaire," said the barman, contemptuously. Braby shook his head. "Ah, he's liable to allow that when he's full, sir," said Braby. But that fatal bottle kept Geordie Potts wholly insensible till they were outside the Heads again and on their way to England, with the smoke of the tug-boat far astern. And presently the second mate, Mr. Brose, who was a very rough sort of dog, and had sweated his way up to his present exalted rank from that of a foremast hand, hauled Geordie out by the collar of his coat, and had him brought to by means of a bucketful of nice Bass's Straits water. Geordie gasped like a dying dolphin, but came to rapidly. "I'll teach you to get drunk, you swab," said Brose. "Take them wet things off and turn to." And Geordie obeyed like a child in the presence of _force majeure_. "Oh, I've got a head," he told his mates, "and it seems to me that I had a most extraordinary dream." "Wot did you dream of, old Cocklywax?" asked Braby; "did you dream you'd come in for old Tyser's money?" And Geordie gasped. "S'help me," he murmured. "S'help me, did I dream?" He dropped his marline-spike as if it were red hot and made a break for the fo'c's'le and his wet coat. "Now if so be I dreamed," he said, "there'll be naught in this pocket. And if I didn't, I'm jiggered." He put his hand in and brought out a handful of damp and crushed letters, and came out upon deck staggering. Mr. Brose saw him, and was on his tracks like a fish-hawk on a herring-gull. Geordie saw him coming and stood open-mouthed. "Oh, sir," said Geordie. "Oh, sir----" "Oh, rot," said Brose; "what's your little shenanakin game? Get to work, or I'll have you soused till you're half dead." But Geordie could explain nothing. "Oh, sir," he stammered, and held up his papers, shaking them feebly. And Brose shook him, anything but feebly, so that Geordie's teeth chattered. "If you please, sir," he cried out at last, "if you please, sir, don't. I owns her."