"You think it's horse-meat?"
"Well, if it's not horse-meat, it came off a bull just behind the horns. However, my grates are clean and there's a good draft; I believe I can get up steam on it now," he ended with a reckless laugh, indicating that, although languid from his final fling in New York, he had noted fully how to proceed with his work in the boiler-room.
"Perhaps by going back to the galley we can get a bite. It's nearly two hours before we go on watch, but it's better to give the stomach a chance before doing hard work," I suggested, leading the way to that mysterious quarter of the ship where the cook is king.
This time we inherited mutton stew and the usual bread allowance, which we ate as we sat on the edge of a hatch.
Looking across the water, I noted that we were still hugging shore, but were now far enough south to be free from the chill November winds of New York. We were now favored with a balmy, invigorating breeze.
Strong's first question was not unexpected after he glanced at some curious passengers on the deck above us, amused at our sumptuous meal and manner of taking it.
"How do you happen among this gang?" he asked, laying his bread allowance on the hatch and poising a knife and fork that came with the ship direct from the builders twenty years before.
I looked at him squarely and knew I had to give a logical reply. His straight nose showed the power of logical analysis. The thought came to me that he had somehow robbed a marble image of Cleopatra of its nose and clapped it on his own face. There could be no question of his inherent refinement. Such a person one usually answers civilly, though the questions be frivolous.
"Well, you see, in order to get a marine license you must do a certain amount of sea duty in the fire room."
"Is a marine license so very desirable?"