I was about to go up to the cabin for some birds, when another man called out:—
“I say—can you get us any water?”
“Oh yes, plenty,” replied I.
“Well then, I say, Jim, hand us the pail out of the boat.”
The one addressed did so, and the man put it into my hands, saying, “Bring us that pail, boy, will you?” I hastened up to the cabin, filled the pail full of water, and then went for a quantity of dried birds, with which I hastened down again to the bathing-pool. I found the men had not been idle; they had taken some fagots off the stack and made a large fire under the rocks, and were then busy making a sort of tent with the boat’s sails.
“Here’s the water, and here’s some birds,” said I, as I came up to them.
“Birds! What birds?” said the man who had first spoken to me, and appeared to have control over the rest. He took one up and examined it by the light of the fire, exclaiming, “Queer eating, I expect.”
“Why, you didn’t expect a regular hotel when you landed, did you, mate?” said one of the men.
“No, if I had, I would have called for a glass of grog,” replied he. “I suspect I might call a long while before I get any one to bring me one here.”
As I knew that Jackson called the rum by the name of grog, I said, “There’s plenty of grog, if you want any.”