“They are on their best behaviour now,” Horace laughed; “but they are all picked men, and have all served in British men-of-war.”
As eight bells rang out a party of sailors came along to the quarter-deck, bringing with them half a dozen mess tables, which they arranged together, according to the direction of Zaimes.
“But these are nothing like enough, Zaimes,” Horace said, going over to him.
“We are not going to sit down, Mr. Horace. We shall have two meals—one at eleven and one at six. We shall put things on the table now, and let them eat standing.”
The cloth was soon spread, and upon it were placed fruit, bread and butter, and eggs, a great tureen filled with coffee, and another with hot milk; the whole of the cabin tea and coffee cups, and a score of the men’s mugs.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Beveridge said, “you must help yourselves. I am sorry to say that our breakfast service is quite insufficient for our needs, and that the gentlemen will have to put up with the sailors’ mugs.”
Everyone seemed to enjoy the meal; the women sat about on the deck in little groups, and the men waited upon them, the three officers making themselves very busy in this work.
“It is disgusting, Horace,” Miller said, “to hear you jabbering away with these girls, while we poor beggars can’t say a word to them.”
“But you speak a little Italian, don’t you, Miller?”