There was more than one moist eye while those words were uttered, for the men had both been great favourites with their messmates.
Rory was sitting that evening with his elbows resting on the saloon table, his chin on his hands, and a book in front of him that he was not looking at, when McBain came below.
“You’re quieter than usual,” said McBain, placing a kindly hand on his shoulder.
Rory smiled, forced a laugh even, as one does who wants to shake off an incubus.
“I was thinking,” he said, “of that awful black forest of waterspouts. I’ll never get it out of my head.”
“Oh! yes you will, boy Rory,” said McBain; “it was a new sensation, that’s all.”
“New sensation!” said Allan, laughing in earnest; “well, captain, I must say that is a mild way of putting it. I don’t want any more such sensations. Steward, bring some nice hot coffee.”
“Ay!” cried Ralph, “that’s the style, Allan. Some coffee, steward—and, steward, bring the cold pork and fowls, and make some toast, and bring the butter and the Chili vinegar.”
Poor Irish Rory! Like every one with a poetic temperament, he was easily cast down, and just as easily raised again. Ralph’s wondrous appetite always amused him.
“Oh, you true Saxon!” said Rory—“you hungry Englishman!” But, ten minutes afterwards, he felt himself constrained to join the party at the supper table.