When the last boat was reached, they went down into the cabin, where a colored man was cooking food.
A leaf projecting from the wall was already propped to a horizontal position, and on it were a few plates, knives and forks, a dish of warmed-up potatoes, a slice or two of fried ham, and some bread and butter.
The negro was preparing coffee also. The odor of it all was very pleasant to Joe as he climbed down the steep cabin stairs, and he did not wait long after being told to help himself.
“I’ve hired this boy for the trip,” the man explained to his cook. “What’s your name, young feller, anyhow?” he continued, turning to the boy.
“Joe.”
“What else?”
“That’s all,—for the present, anyway.”
“Oh, I see! Run away, did ye? Well, I won’t be so partic’ler. My name’s Rosencamp,—Bill Rosencamp. Cap’n Bill, for short. An’ this gentleman’s name,” turning to the negro, “is Blixey. He’s like you; he’s only got one name; but he can’t help it,—he never had no other.”
Blixey laughed immoderately at this, and poured the coffee with an unsteady hand. He seemed to be so weak and wavering in all his movements, his eyes were so bloodshot, and his utterance so thick, that Joe thought he must have been drinking; but he had not been,—at any rate, not that morning.
Joe enjoyed his breakfast greatly. Though it was a coarse meal, it was the best he had eaten for many days, and when he was done with it he was ready to go to work, and said so.