Dorian reached for a tankard from the shelf and placed it upon the table next to the log. Reaching for the bottle currently set on the side table, he paused. Stepping lightly across the small room, he arrived at the foot locker set opposite the table. He fumbled for a moment with the latches but then spent little time finding the vintage he sought.
He removed a bottle of fine Madeira and poured himself a glass. Dorian set the bottle on the table while he drained the glass. Watching Preston on the stern bench, he knew his time for rest was rapidly approaching. He wondered over a second glass if the day's events could wait for the morrow to be scribed into the log.