Blood led the way down to the cabin. The lazaret was situated under the cabin floor, and, while Harman opened it, Blood, with a pencil and a bit of paper, figured out their requirements.
“We want a couple of tins of coffee,” said he, “and half a dozen of condensed milk—sugar, biscuits—tobacco—beef.”
“It’s sorry I am I haven’t any cigars to offer you,” said Ginnell, with a half laugh, “but there’s some tins of sardines; be sure an’ take the sardines, Mr. Harman, for me heart wouldn’t be aisy if I didn’t think you were well supplied with comforts.”
“I can’t find any sardines,” said the delving Harman, “but here’s baccy enough, and eight tins of beef will be more than enough to get us to Frisco.”
“Take a dozen,” said Ginnell; “there ain’t more than a dozen all told; but, sure, I’ll manage to do without, and never grumble so long as you’re well supplied.”
Blood glanced at him with an angry spark in his eye.
“We’ve no wish to crowd you, Pat Ginnell,” said he, “and what we take we pay for, or we will pay for it when we get to port. You’ll please remember you’re talking to an Irishman.”
“Irishman!” cried Ginnell. “You’ll be plazed to remember I’m an Irishman, too.”
“Well I know it,” replied the other.
This remark, for some unaccountable reason, seemed to incense Ginnell. He clenched his fists, stuck out his jaw, glanced Blood up and down, and then, as if remembering something, brought himself under control with a mighty effort.