“What do I want with a ship?” said Andy, looking puzzled. “Why, to cook!”
“Cook a ship?”
“Ah, sure. Won’t a bit of mutton be guid after so much salt and tinned beef?”
“Oh, a sheep!” cried Fitz.
“Ay, I said so: a ship. Your leg of mutton, or a shouther are all very good in their way, but a neck makes the best Irish stew. But bide a wee till we do get hold of a ship, and I’ll make you a dish such as will make you say you’ll never look at an Irish stew again.”
“Oh!” cried Poole. “He means one of those—”
“Nay, nay, nay! Let me tell him, laddie. He never ken’d such a thing on board a man-o’-war. D’ye ken the national dish, Mr Burnett, sir?”
“Of course,” said Fitz; “the roast beef of old England.”
“Pugh!” ejaculated the Scot. “Ye don’t know. Then I’ll tell ye. Joost gi’e me the liver and a few ither wee bit innards, some oatmeal, pepper, salt, an onion, and the bahg, and I’ll make you a dish that ye’ll say will be as good as the heathen deities lived on.”
“Do you know what that was?” said Fitz.