“‘We’d never see England again if we did,’ I replied.
“‘Well,’ said the boy, ‘I’m precious hungry, aren’t you, Mr Roberts?’
“‘I could do with a pick,’ I replied.
“Then young Leigh gave his orders like a prince.
“‘Bear a hand, lads,’ he cried, ‘and get supper; gather sticks, light a fire, on with the pot; some of you run to the village and bring half a dozen fowls. Cut up the bacon. Did you bring the onions? Smith, if you’ve forgotten the onions, I’ll have you flogged.’
“‘Then I won’t be flogged,’ said Smith.
“Well, Nie, the remembrance of that stew, that cock-a-leekie soup, made gipsy-fashion in that lonely island of the ocean, makes me truly hungry to think of even now.”
“Shall I get you a ham sandwich, Roberts?” I asked provokingly.
“A ham sandwich!” he cried, “What! sawdust and paint, and the memory of that stew hovering round one like the odours of Araby the Blest? Don’t insult me, Nie. I tell you, boy, that a hungry man might have been content to dine off the steam. There!
“Well, we had a good long rest after supper.”