The sour look on the man’s face passed away. Vince’s countenance, and his free-and-easy way, seemed to find favour, and he said gruffly,—
“Lobscouse.”
“What, for the skipper?” said Vince, who had a lively memory of the captain’s breakfast.
“Men,” said the man laconically.
“And for the skipper?”
The man smiled grimly, and took the lid off a pot, which arose an agreeable steam, that was appetising and suggested good soup. Then, without a word, he pointed to a dish upon which lay a pair of thick soles, and to another, on which, ready egged and crumbed, were about a dozen neatly prepared veal cutlets.
“Got any potatoes,” said Vince.
The man raised a lid and showed the familiar vegetable, bubbling away on the little stove, which was roaring loudly, and put the saucepan down again.
“Well, we shan’t starve,” said Vince, as they each gave the cook a nod and walked as far forward as they could. “Captain hasn’t a bad notion about eating and drinking.”
“And smuggling and kidnapping,” said Mike bitterly.