This was an attack that the boy could not stand. He wanted to say No, with a gesture of disgust, but Nature would not let him then.
“I dunno,” he said dubiously. “Did he make it?”
“Of course.”
“But he looks like a common sailor; not a bit like a cook.”
“He is a foremast-man, and takes his turn at everything, like the rest; but he does all the cooking just the same.”
“But is he really clean?”
“He made all those bread-cakes you have eaten,” was the reply.
“Oh,” said Fitz quickly, for the soup smelt aggravatingly nice. “Would you mind tasting it?”
Poole raised the spoon to his lips, and replaced it.
“Splendid,” he said. “You try.”