Captain Truck stared, looked his grave companion steadily in the eye, for he was too much addicted to mystifying, not to distrust others, and picked his teeth with redoubled vigilance.
"Vattel a cook! This is the first I ever heard of it."
"There was a Vattel, in a former age, who stood at the head of his art as a cook; this I can assure you, on my honour: he may not have been your Vattel, however."
"Sir, there never were two Vattels. This is extraordinary news to me, and I scarcely know how to receive it."
"If you doubt my information, you may ask any of the other passengers. Either of the Mr. Effinghams, or Mr. Blunt, or Miss Effingham, or Mademoiselle Viefville will confirm what I tell you, I think; especially the latter, for he was her countryman."
Hereupon Captain Truck began to stuff in the oakum again, for the calm countenance of Mr. Sharp produced an effect; and as he was pondering on the consequences of his oracle's turning out to be a cook, he thought it not amiss to be eating, as it were, incidentally. After swallowing a dozen olives, six or eight anchovies, as many pickled oysters, and raisins and almonds, as the advertisements say à volonté, he suddenly struck his fist on the table, and announced his intention of putting the question to both the ladies.
"My dear young lady," he called out, "will you do me the honour to say whether you ever heard of a cook of the name of Vattel?"
Eve laughed, and her sweet tones were infectious amid the dull howling of the gale, which was constantly heard in the cabins, like a bass accompaniment, or the distant roar of a cataract among the singing of birds.
"Certainly, captain," she answered; "Mr. Vattel was not only a cook, but perhaps the most celebrated on record, for sentiment at least, if not for skill."
"I make no doubt the man did his work well, let him be set about what he might; and, mademoiselle, he was a countryman of yours, they tell me?"