“To get shut of the ’sponsibility, sir. I can’t see which way to steer.”
“Oh, never mind the steering,” cried Fitz. “Just keep her head to the swell, and let’s all rest, my lads. I feel so done up that I could go to sleep. We can’t do anything till daylight. Here, I say, Camel, did you bring anything to eat?”
“The orders were to bring the rations stowed inside, sir,” replied the cook; “but a’m thenking I did slip a wee bit something into the locker for’ard there, juist ahind where ye are sitting, sir. Would you mind feeling? Hech! I never thought of that!”
“Thought of what?” said Fitz.
“Ye’ve got the ship’s carpenter there, and he’s got a nose like a cat for feesh. Awm skeart that he smelt it oot in the dairk and it’s all gone.”
“Haw, haw!” chuckled the carpenter. “You are wrong this time, Andy. I got my smelling tackle all choked up with the stuff the bearings of that gunboat’s fan was oiled with—nasty rank stuff like Scotch oil. I don’t believe I shall smell anything else for a week.”
Rap! went the lid of the little locker.
“It’s all right, my lads,” cried Fitz. “Here, Andy, man, those who hide can find. Come over here and serve out the rations; but I wish we’d got some of your hot prime soup.”
“Ay, laddie,” said the cook softly, as he obeyed his orders; “it would ha’ been juist the thing for such a wetting as you got with your joomp. Mr Poole, will ye come here too? I got one little tin with enough for you and Mr Poole, and a big one for the lads and mysen. But I’m vairy sorry to say I forgot the saut.”
“He needn’t have troubled himself about the salt,” said Poole softly. “I should never have missed it. You and I have taken in enough to-night through our pores.”