The mate laughed and a saturnine smile came over his sharp features. “Which means you don’t think a hell of a lot of it so far, eh? Waal, son, ye’re dead right. It’s a dog’s life, and the man who goes to sea for a livin’ nowadays ’ud go to hell for pleasure!” And after delivering the ancient deep sea proverb, he too turned and went below.
After sweeping up the poop, Donald went down to the half-deck and found Thompson having his dinner. “Come along, nipper!” he cried cheerfully. “What’ll you have? Roast stuffed duckling with baked potatoes, string beans and brussels sprouts, jam roly-poly and coffee! How would that suit you?”
“That would suit me fine!” exclaimed Donald eagerly looking for evidences of such a menu.
“You bally well bet it would suit you!” laughed Thompson, “but there ain’t no sich luck, as the Yankees say! Here’s your chow! Dig in and curse your uncle!” As he spoke he pushed a large tin pan containing mushy potatoes and a fat, disgusting lump of pork, towards Donald. He also indicated a hook-pot and a small wooden half-pail. “There’s the tea and coffee in the pot—it’s coffee in the morning and tea at other times, but it’s the same stuff—and there’s hard bread in the barge there. Sink me! I don’t know why I left a comfortable home to go knocking around in one of these mean Scotch ships!”
Donald helped himself to the food and made a meal of the worst viands he had ever swallowed in his life. “Is it always like this?” he asked, disgustedly pushing the mess-kit away from his sight.
“Always like this?” echoed Thompson in mock indignation. “Well, I’m blowed! Godfrey, nipper, you’ll appreciate chow as good as that afore this trip’s ended! Yes, siree! you’ll learn to thank the good Lord for a penny herring and a slice o’ white bread and a real potato yet. And you’ll eat your fill o’ rotten grub afore you hit the beach again, my son! Such ungratefulness, Oliver Twist!—damned if it ain’t!”
Thompson would have continued in this strain for a while, but there came a tug at the half-deck door and two youths leaped in dragging bags and chests. “Hullo, Jack!” shouted both in unison. “Here we are again!” Both were dressed in apprentice’s uniform and were chunky lads around sixteen years of age. “Who’s the new chum, Jack?” queried one—a chubby, curly-haired chap with a pleasant smile and nice white teeth.
Thompson waved a lazy hand. “McKenzie, meet Jenkins and Moore. Jenkins has done one stretch, but Moore has only four days of his four years in. Jenkins here is a fat-head for sleep, while Moore is a young sailor but a damned old soldier and would sooner skulk than work. Now you know them!”
Jenkins laughed, but Moore scowled. He was a swarthy complexioned lad with a large ugly mouth and beady black eyes. Donald sized his two shipmates up quickly. Jenkins would be alright, but Moore would be quarrelsome. Two minutes later, his deductions were verified when both started to protest at having to take lower bunks. “I say, Thompson, old man,” said Jenkins, “the nipper will have to turn out of that bunk—”
“No he won’t,” answered Thompson, calmly smoking away. “I told him to put his truck there and he’ll stay there!”