Bob, who wished to be agreeable, narrated the incident.
“We made a lucky miss of it,” remarked the ensign, when Bob had finished. “I’ve no desire to go to the bottom in a steel sarcophagus like the Grampus. Strange I slept through it all, but I was tired, and I suppose I slept rather sounder than usual. That chink,” he added, putting down his cup, “is a poor coffee maker. Or is it the coffee itself that tastes so rank?”
“It’s poor stuff,” spoke up Speake, “an’ I was jest goin’ to say something about the taste. The chink did better yesterday than he’s doin’ this mornin’.”
“Id purns ven id goes town, like id vas a torchlight brocession,” observed Carl luminously. “I don’d like dot, but I vas hungry, so I trink it. Whoosh!”
“It’s certainly hot and bitter,” said Bob, and put down his cup after two or three swallows.
“That steamer is gettin’ closer to us, Bob,” announced Speake, fumbling with the wheel and looking at the periscope.
“Steady, there, Speake!” cautioned Bob.
“I don’t know what’s the matter with me,” muttered Speake, “but my nerves are all in a quiver. She’s small, that steamer; one funnel, black, with a red band. I don’t jest recollect what line—that—is.”
He drawled out the last words.
“Py Jove!” said Carl; “I feel sick py der shdomach, und eferyt’ing iss virling und virling.”