Hank. Well, the no-cake is that aire white stuff piled up on that aire plate. It looks like something goodish; but when you chaw it, it feels like sand. The Injuns eat it, and they said ’twould make the cap’n sleep good.
Capt. M. I should think it would,—and dream of my grandmother. If it chews like sand, it will be heavy enough.
Hank. There ain’t no decent vittals for a sick man to eat in these diggings. ’Tain’t half so good as the Nantucket feed, such as my marm used to cook.
Capt. M. Oh, Hank! don’t speak of it! How I should like some fried perch,—some good fresh salt-water perch, with their heads on; and some steamed clams, fresh-dug Nantucket clams, with the shells all gaping at you. I feel as if I could eat a good four-quart tin pan full this minute, shells and all.
Hank. I’d like to make you a rippin’ good chowder, sir. Such as we have ter hum. What you want is real, good, hard, fresh cod-fish or haddock, head and all, some white potatoes (none o’ your flat yellow sweets), some onions, some Boston crackers, and a generous rasher of salt strip pork (none o’ your middlings). But I can’t do it. They never heerd of a Boston cracker, and there ain’t a decent piece o’ fresh salt-water fish between here and Nantucket. Only this darned canned stuff; and that’s enough to p’isen a feller.
Mary (to William, from the wheel-house). You’ll have some chowder when you get home, dear; and you’ll eat again of all the old New England food.
Hank. Oh, sir! you goin’ hum?
Capt. M. I think of it.
Mary (to Hank). Yes, he is going home; and pretty soon, too.
Hank. If you do, sir, I hope you’ll take a skip down to Nantucket, and see my folks. Marm ’ll be mighty glad to see you. I’ll write to her, and send her some money, and you can take the letter, sir, right along. And please, sir, fetch me word how the old place looks, and if marm seems comfortable.