A second, third and fourth said the same thing. The owner was worked up into an ecstasy of joy, and poked the skipper in the ribs as the others kept throwing their plates down and expressing satisfaction. The owner whispered: "It's a walk over, captain."
"Not yet," responded the skipper.
The last of the three broke the continuity of complete satisfaction by remarking that the dinner was all right, but to make it perfect their wives and sweethearts should have been asked. The captain became obviously nervous, and asked the owner and his wife and daughter to withdraw, but they refused. Then came the last but one, who said that the only thing that would make the dinner faultless to him would be that he should propose marriage to the owner's daughter and be accepted. The mother and daughter became virtuously agitated, and the captain again urged withdrawal, but they insisted on staying for the last chap's opinion, who became eloquent in his praises of all concerned. "But," said he to the last speaker, "you want to have the old man's daughter in marriage. I don't mind her so much; the only thing that would make me satisfied with the thing would be for the owner to die, so that I might marry his widow and get the coin."
The captain nearly took a fit, and the worthy host exclaimed: "Oh, mon dieu!" Thereupon the ladies became hysterical, and the commander having recovered from his embarrassment, said:
"Well, I suppose you will admit that I was right?"
"Yes," said the owner; "I never for one moment anticipated it would take both my wife and daughter to satisfy them, but you have won, and my faith in the possibility of pleasing sailors is broken. You shall have the hundred pounds."
There is a more recent story, which is said to be quite authentic. It neither belongs to the class of vessel or period with which I am dealing, but there is something in it that is characteristic of the old sea cook who was devoted to his ship and his employer. Lord Randolph Churchill was travelling on a steamer owned by a well-known Line, and had reason to complain of the cooking and the quality of the food, so he wrote in the visitors' book that both were bad. The old chief cook took it to heart; and several years after poor Lord Randolph had ceased to live, as the old man himself lay dying, his family saw there was something troubling his mind. They asked him if it was something in connection with his work.
"Yes," said he, mournfully, "it is, and I want you to send for Mr ——," who was an old and trusted servant of the Company. The official went to the cook's home, and before leaving him asked what it was that made him unhappy.
"Well," replied the old fellow, "I have never got over what was said about the food years ago, and I wanted to see you about it, so that you might hear me say before I die: 'May the Lord forgive Lord Randolph Churchill for saying the cooking and food of the —— Line was bad!' Now I have got it off my chest I can die happy." And before the official left, the old man had passed away.
Amongst the numerous traditions which cling to the sailors of these good old days of which Mr John Ruskin used to speak so reverently, was one of a London baker, who was known to have amassed fabulous wealth in manufacturing biscuits from ground bones and selling them for human food to complaisant shipowners who were of kindred spirit to himself. Hundreds of poor seamen who were obliged to eat this vile stuff called bread, provided by their God-forsaken employers as per scale of one pound per day per man, had their bodies saturated with disease. Nay, hundreds of them were killed by its use, and those who survived its poisonous effects had to thank the pure air of the sea and a good deal of self-sacrifice on their own part by preferring to starve themselves rather than eat it.