“Well, collar what you want to eat till you bu-s-s-s.”
“Yes, but whar’ll we go?”
Nutt looked at Captain Kettle. The little man in the swivel-chair gave his African guests full leave to go to a place considerably hotter than the engine-hold; suggesting the mess-room as an after-thought and alternative; whither they betook themselves, grumbling. And then the three whites commenced their meal.
Kettle unwired a champagne bottle with a fork, and poured out three long tumblers of dancing froth. “Wine!” said Hank. “Oh, my Jemima!”
“Geg-geg-got any ice?” queried the one-eyed man.
“Ice is off,” replied the captain. “Things have been that hot this trip it gave up and melted.”
“You seem to got your manners on ice, Mr. Billy Nutt,” said his friend. “Now I see an elegant hotel meal in front of me, and I’m going to make a pig of myself, and be jolly well thankful. I hain’t any use for your high-toned sort of canoosering. See here, stuff your silly mouth, and quit grumbling right now. D’ye hear me?”
His guests ate, and Kettle made small talk for them, at the same time playing a good knife and fork himself. The food seemed to straighten his back and knock the limpness out of him; but Mr. Nutt and his friend were lapping their champagne too industriously to see any significance in the change. They were enjoying themselves with a gusto to which the ordinary gourmand is a stranger. Probably there is nothing on earth so nauseating as a severe course of the Floridan sweet potato. And, consequently, there is no diet so calculated to make one appreciate a more generous menu.
The meal crept steadily through its courses, and the empty bottles grew on the cabin floor. No one got drunk. Captain Kettle’s own libations were sparing, and the others had each a high co-efficient of absorption; still all were exhilarated, and ripe for mischief or merriment as might befall.