"Princely munificence," murmured the First Lieutenant. "He's not a messman: he's a—a—what's the word?"
"Philanthropist. What's the awful alternative?"
"There isn't any; it's scratched out." The A.P. and the Junior Watch-keeper clung to each other. "The originality of the creature! And the duff?"
"Rice-pudding."
"Ah me! alack-a-day! alas!" The Paymaster tore his hair. "I must prophesy ... must prophesy,—shut up, every one! Shut up!" He closed his eyes and pawed the air feebly. "I'm a medium. I'm going to prophesy. I feel it coming.... The savoury is ... the savoury is"—there was a moment's tense silence—"sardines on toast." He opened his eyes. "Am I right, sir? Thank you."
The Surgeon leaned forward, and picking up the massive silver shooting trophy that occupied the centre of the table, handed it to a waiter.
"Take that to the Paymaster, please. First prize for divination and second sight. And you, Snatcher—you'll go down for another round of port if you keep on laughing with your mouth full."
So the meal progressed. The "mullets" were disentangled from their paper jackets amid a rustling silence of interrogation. The Worcester sauce aided and abetted the disappearance of the Russian Kromeskis, as it had so often done before. The mutton was voted the limit, and the rice-pudding held evidences that the cook's hair wanted cutting. The Junior Watch-keeper—proud officer of that functionary's division—vowed he'd have it cut in a manner which calls for no description in these pages. There weren't any sardines on toast. The Philanthropist appeared in person, with dusky, upturned palms, to deplore the omission.
"Ow! signor—olla fineesh! I maka mistake! No have got sardines, signor...!"
"Dear old Ah Ying!" sighed the Engineer Lieutenant, "I never really loved him till this minute. Why did we leave him at Hong-Kong and embark this snake-in-the-grass.... No sardines...!"