“Ess, sir; Ise here, sir.”
“Well, come here, you dingy son of a Portuguese cook.”
The steward threw his apron over his left shoulder and entered from the steerage.
“Can you give us a ripping good feed to-night, and have it all on the table smart at half-past six?”
“Let me see, sir,” said the steward, placing a forefinger on the corner of his mouth and looking profoundly wise. “What I would propose, sir, would be diss ting.”
“Well?—out with it.”
“Der is French Charlie on shore here.”
The ship, by the bye, was lying off the Sultan’s Palace, in the roadstead at Zanzibar.
“Yes—French Charlie?”
“Well, sir, he cook one excellent dinner, and wait too; and myself, sir, vill make de curry.”