“Ship, laddie—ship. If ye ca’ it like that naebody will think ye mean a mutton that goes on four feet.”
“Well, pronounce it your own way,” said Fitz. “But what is this wonderful dish you mean to make?”
“He means kidney-broth, made with the liver,” said Poole.
“Nay, nay. Dinna you mind him, laddie. He only said that to make you laugh. You bide a wee, and I’ll make one fit for a Queen. You’ve never tasted haggis, but some day you shall.”
Andy Cawmell closed one eye and gave the convalescent what was intended for a very mysterious, confidential look, and then stole gravely out of the cabin, closed the door after him, and opened it directly after, to thrust in his head, the basin, and the spoon.
“D’ye mind, laddie,” he whispered, tapping the basin, “at twa bells every day the meexture as before.”
He closed the door again, and this time did not return, though Fitz waited for a few moments before speaking, his eyes twinkling now with merriment.
“Haggis!” he cried. “Scotch haggis! Of course, I know. It’s mincemeat boiled in the bag of the pipes with the pipes themselves chopped up for bones. You’ve heard of it before?”
“Oh yes, though I never tasted it. Andy makes one for the lads whenever he gets a chance.”
“Do they eat it?”