But Mr Lloyd knew right well from experience what a hungry rascal like this could do even in a single night.
“It isn’t what they eat so much,” he explained to Claude, “as what they destroy. A bear will stave in the head of half a dozen casks of flour, perhaps, before he comes to a barrow of beef. And that doesn’t satisfy him, for he argues that there may be something better in the other casks, and goes clawing away like an evil spirit.”
“Talking about spirits,” put in the second mate, “he is a strict teetotaller; he won’t touch rum.”
“Tins of soupe-en-bouilli, I suppose,” said Claude, “would also defy him.”
“Not if he gets a tooth in one,” replied Warren; “and as for sardines—my conscience! sir, he is fond of them; if once he tastes them he’ll swallow the boxes at a single bite.”
“Boxes and all?” inquired Claude, laughing.
“Well, I never saw the empty boxes left about anywhere.”
“Must be a capital tonic, anyhow!” said Dr Barrett; “but a rather indigestible one.”
There had been wood enough brought on purpose to build huts on shore—simply rough planks. The house of amusement was a famous one. Built with stone as to its chimney, and with wood, filled in with dry moss, as to its walls. There was a capital fireplace, too, in it.
The general routine of the day was somewhat as follows—that is, when there was any kind of bright star, or moonlight, or aurora gleams; though these last were very intermittent, and, like some of our electric lights, would go out without a moment’s warning. There was breakfast at eight; muster to prayers afterwards, on the upper deck, which was almost entirely covered over.