“I’se jest a histin up dis yer cookin-stove,” said he. “Ben tyin de ropes roun it ebery which way, an jes got her ready to be put into de boat.”
“The what!” cried Arthur.
“De cookin-stove,” said Solomon, gravely.
“He’s mad!” cried Bruce. “He’s gone crazy. Pat and Solomon have both gone mad with excitement or terror.”
“You jes gib a left here, an help dis ole man put dis yer cookin-stove aboard de boat, an den you ’ll be all right.”
“Solomon! Solomon!” cried Bart, “what horrible nonsense! What do you mean by talking about putting a cooking-stove on board the boat? Come along. Be quick.”
“Tell you what,” said Solomon, “dis yer stove am a nessary succumstance. How you s’pose you get you meals cooked? Mus hab a cookin-stove. Mus so. You got water to bile, and things to cook.”
“Nonsense;” cried Bart. “Can’t you see that it’ll sink the boat?”
“But what’ll you do?” said Solomon. “You’ll suffer if you don’t take it. You mus hab a cookin-stove. Mus so!”
At this obstinate persistence in such unaccountable folly the boys were in despair. The schooner was sinking, lower and lower every minute, and there were those on board of her, wasting precious time and chattering nonsense. What could be the meaning of this? Had terror deprived them of their senses? It seemed so. There was Captain Corbet, absorbed in his own thoughts, evidently quite forgetful of the present danger, and unconscious of the scene around him. There was Wade, with his heavy face gaping from the windlass, where he had seated himself. There was Pat, still tying himself to the mast; and there was Solomon, toiling away at the cooking-stove. It was like a small floating lunatic asylum. They might well feel puzzled and bewildered.