No bells were struck on board the brig—for such I believed the little craft to be—and we had no means of telling the time. I think, however, it must have been about noon that the mule-driver, whose name I had discovered was Miguel, brought us a mess of dried fish and rice for our mid-day meal. From the ancient smell which seemed to hover about the former article of food, we did not anticipate much enjoyment from eating it; but, to our surprise, it did not prove at all unpalatable, and we finished every morsel of it with great gusto, Ned declaring that he had not had such a “tuck-in” for months, and that fighting-cocks weren’t in the running with us at all.
In the afternoon we slept long and heavily, but we awoke—all confessed to it—feeling feverish and irritable. If Miguel had inadvertently put his ugly visage at this moment within reach of Ned Burton’s prodigious fist, I fancy he would quickly have retired from whence he came, a wiser and an uglier man, and have made tracks for the galley to try to coax the ship’s cook out of a raw beefsteak.
Happily for us no such fearful contretemps occurred; and, as the effects of our afternoon snooze wore off, we began to feel more amicably inclined towards our fellow-creatures.
“Ned,” said Mr. Triggs abruptly, “where’s your knife?”
“My knife!” ejaculated the seaman. “Well, that’s a good un anyhow. Why, it’s where your ticker and t’other gimcrack vallables is—up the spout!”
“My ticker up the spout!” said the gunner with a sudden assumption of dignity; “I don’t quite follow your meaning.”
“Well, I was speaking in a sort of parrydox or conundrum, I take it, Mr. Triggs,” answered Ned, floundering, as was sometimes his wont, into expressions of which he did not know the meaning. “What I just meant to say was that these blooming highwaymen, or pirates, or whatever scum they are, have pouched the whole bag of tricks. My knife and lanyard, my baccy-box, and a ring my great-aunt give me just afore we sailed from England, have gone the same way as your watch, and trinkets, and such like.”
“I’m sorry for it,” said Mr. Triggs; “a knife would have been worth its weight in gold to us.”
“Likely enough,” assented Ned, looking at his superior a little curiously. “I reckon you’d have liked it handy to eat bread and cheese with if the pirates give you a chance.”
“No, I like whittling to amuse myself,” said the gunner with a sly wink; “though it’s very useful too sometimes to cut one’s stick.”