“That is, a landcrab salad before you, Mr. Hornblower. Coconutfed land crab. Some prefer it to dairyfed pork. Perhaps you will serve it to those who would care for some?”
The steward brought in a vast smoking joint which he put on the table.
“A saddle of fresh lamb,” said the captain. “Sheep do badly in these islands and I fear this may not be fit to eat. But perhaps you will at least try it. Mr. Buckland, will you carve? You see, gentlemen, I still have some real potatoes left—one grows weary of yams. Mr. Hornblower, will you take wine?”
“With pleasure, sir.”
“And Mr. Bush—to your speedy recovery, sir.”
Bush drained his glass thirstily. Sankey had warned him, when he left the hospital, that over indulgence in spirituous liquors might result in inflammation of his wounds, but there was pleasure in pouring the wine down his throat and feeling the grateful warmth it brought to his stomach. The dinner proceeded.
“You gentlemen who have served on this station before must be acquainted with this,” said the captain, contemplating a steaming dish that had been laid before him. “A West Indian pepper pot—not as good as one finds in Trinidad, I fear. Mr. Hornblower, will you make your first essay? Come in!”
The last words were in response to a knock on the cabin door. A smartly dressed midshipman entered. His beautiful uniform, his elegant bearing, marked him as one of that class of naval officer in receipt of a comfortable allowance from home, or even of substantial means of his own. Some sprig of the nobility, doubtless, serving his legal time until favouritism and interest should whisk him up the ladder of promotion.
“I’m sent by the admiral, sir,” he announced.
Of course. Bush, his perceptions comfortably sensitised with wine, could see at once that with those clothes and that manner he must be on the admiral’s staff.