So the Buntings, as the other ships called them, roughed it rather. They could have bought nice things about big towns like the city of the Cape, or even at Zanzibar, but they had only the ship’s cook, and the steward was a half-caste Portuguese, whose only strong point was an excellent curry, into which, however, he often slipped more garlic that was palatable to English tastes.
For three more years the Bunting carried it with a high hand among the slavers on the Eastern coast. Even Harry himself now began to long for home, and to see his dear mother and father again.
Letters came but about once in three months, and the mail never failed to bring Harry a bundle that kept him reading for a week, because he read them all over and over again, put them aside for days, took them out once more, and again read them.
His old friend Andrew’s letters were always comical, and his good-natured, simple face invariably rose up before our hero’s mind’s eye as he perused them.
Even his old dominie did not forget Harry. By almost every mail now the Buntings expected a letter from their lordships ordering them home.
It came at last, and, strange to say, it came on. Captain Wayland’s birthday.
“Putting both events together, boys,” said the doctor to his messmates, “I really don’t think we can do better than invite the skipper to dinner.”
“Good?” cried Harry.
“Hurrah!” cried another.
“Steward!” cried Dewar.