“Hould up, me boy! Sure it’s too soon by six morthal hours for ye to be thrying to stand on one leg!”
The other laughed, and there was a fresh move in order to make way for the late arrivals, during which a newly-opened tin of salmon emptied its contents into Armitage’s hat, while simultaneously some one managed to upset and extinguish the lantern.
“Hold on! Don’t move!” cried Jim, striking a match. “There?” And lighting the lantern again, they surveyed the damage.
“See what comes of unpunctuality, McShane,” said Armitage, gravely, holding up his hat.
“Bedad, and ye oughtn’t to complain, for ye’ve got your own rations and all of ours, too,” retorted the Irishman.
“Never mind; shy it outside, Jack, or give it to Klaas. He’ll soon polish it off,” said Jim. “Here,” he went on, handing round the Bass bottles. “Just one apiece; make the most of it because it’s the last.”
“Last of the Mohicans,” inevitably and simultaneously quoted every one.
Corks popped and jollification reigned paramount; and sitting there in that rough tent, whose sole furniture consisted of a camp-stool or so, and a few old packing-cases turned upside down, Claverton began to find himself in a very comfortable frame of mind. The not very brilliant light of the tin lantern shone upon faces full of mirth and good fellowship, and many a hearty laugh rang out as they discussed the cheer before them—rough in all conscience, but plentiful and indeed luxurious compared with what awaited them. His mind was made up. He would accept the post offered to him.
The tinned meats disappeared, and so did the rather tough camp rations in their turn; and the Bass having long since vanished, the grog-bottles were beginning to show symptoms of decay.
“Tell you what it is, Claverton, old boy,” began Armitage, benignly contemplating him through a cloud of tobacco smoke. “You’d better cut in with us; just look how well we live here.”