“Will it send the fishes to sleep, Mr Frewen?” I whispered, as I placed the empty tureen back in its place.
“Bad for them if it does,” he said, with an attempt at looking merry. “For their enemies are safe to swallow them while they are napping.”
“With both eyes open,” said Mr Preddle.
The departure of the soup acted like a charm on all; and after Mr Brymer had been down once more as far as the forecastle, we all began to partake of the savoury Australian dish the cook had prepared, with an abundance of rich gravy, and the whole surrounded by a thick wall of beautifully cooked white rice.
Though our meals had been rough and unsatisfactory for many hours, every one began his dinner with manifest distaste, for it was impossible to avoid thinking of what had been done; but after a portion had been taken into the cabin by Mr Denning for his sister, and a little of the gravy and rice to the captain by the doctor’s orders, first one made a little pretence of eating by nibbling at his biscuit, then another tasted the savoury-looking dish and commented upon it, and a minute later, as a jovial chorus came rolling out of the forecastle-hatch, Mr Frewen began to eat.
“Come, Dale,” he said, “have some dinner, and forget all that. It was your duty, my lad.”
“Yes; I will try,” I said; and making an effort, I mastered my disinclination and swallowed a mouthful.
“Capital, isn’t it?” said Mr Frewen, smiling.
“Yes, it is good,” I replied; and I went on, feeling surprised at my returning appetite.
The result was that Mr Brymer and Mr Denning fell to, and we were all—perhaps in a forced manner, to encourage each other—loud in our praises of the dish, of which we ate heartily.