“Ask Solomon,” said Captain Corbet, mournfully.
“Well, Solomon, tell us the worst,” said Tom.
But Solomon would not or could not speak. He raised his head, looked wildly around, and then hurried away.
Captain Corbet looked after him, and heaved a heavy sigh.
“Wal, boys,” said he, “the fact is, Solomon and me, we’ve been talkin it all over. You see, he considers himself cook, and cook only, and looks to me for the material. It’s all my fault. I forgot. I thought there was lots till yesterday mornin. Then Solomon told me how it was. I’d ort to have laid in a supply before leavin Bay de Chaleur; but as I said, I forgot. And as for Solomon, why, he’s been calmly a continooin of his cookery, same as if he was chief cook of a fust-class hotel, and all the time he was in a becalmed schewner. He told me all about it yesterday mornin; but I says, ‘Don’t tell the boys; mebbe the wind’ll change, and I’ll sail for the nighest port.’ So he didn’t, except so far as you might have guessed, from the meals which he served up; pooty slim they were too; but he did his best.”
“Well,” said Tom, with unaltered self-possession, “it would have been better for us to have known this yesterday morning; but that can’t be helped. So we have no more provisions?”
“Precious little,” said Captain Corbet, mournfully.
“Have we any?” asked Tom.
“Wal,” said Captain Corbet, “the tea’s all gone; and the coffee, and all the potted meats, and the apples, and the taters, and the turnips and carrots, and all the vegetables, and the smoked provisions, and you had the last mite of corned beef yesterday.”
“But what is there left?” asked Tom.