“What’s the matter, old chap?” said Poole.
“Oh, we shall have nothing to do but wait now, perhaps for hours, for I expect the enemy has gone right back to the gunboat, and waiting is a thing I do thoroughly hate. Eh? Is that you, Camel?”
“Andy Cawmell it is, sir. A’m thenking that it would be joost a good time for a wee bit food. Ah’ve been watching Mr Burnett here, and the puir laddie looks quite white and faint. Would you mind telling the skipper that I’ve got a wee bit hot dinner a’ ready? and if he will gi’e the word I’ll have it in the cabin in less time than Duncan Made-Hose took his pinch of sneeshin.”
“Well done, Camel!” cried Poole, who darted to his father, leaving the cook blinking and smiling at Fitz, who looked at him in admiration.
“Why, Camel,” he said, “you are a deal too clever for a ship’s cook, and I don’t know what I owe you for all you have done for me.”
“Oh, joost naething at all, laddie.”
“Nothing! I want to make you a big present when I can.”
“You do, laddie? Vairy weel, and I’ll tell you what I’d like. Ye’ll just gi’e me one of them quarter-poond tins of Glasgie sneeshin.”
“Snuff!” said Poole contemptuously. “Ay, laddie; snuff, as ye call it. Nay, don’t turn your nose up at sneeshin. Ye should turn it down. Thenk of what it is to a man condemned to get naething but a bit of dirty black pigtail tobaccy that he has to chew like the lads do in their barbarous way. Ye’ll mind that: a four-ounce tin of the rale Glasgie.”
“Oh, but—”