Not until nearly sunset did the little tender make the last trip to the key, and by that time the calm was “raging.” There was not air enough stirring to lift the thread of blue at the truck, and the atmosphere had suddenly grown so hot as to be almost stifling.
If Captain Mansfield had reason to distrust those whom he was trying to aid, during the first interview, he had good proof of their evil natures before the wind sprang up again.
All the castaways were under the influence of liquor to a greater or less degree, and those who came latest must have contrived to bring an additional supply to their companions.
Andy had prepared a substantial meal, which was served on deck, and, instead of being grateful for the same, there was more grumbling than might have been expected from sailors whose only food for many days had been “salt horse.”
The bushy-whiskered fellow, who acted as the leader of the party was particularly aggressive, and, when Andy had set out a well-cooked, generous amount of corned beef, potatoes and cabbage—such a spread as they would not have received anywhere, save on a pleasure yacht—he asked, in a surly tone:
“Is this the kind of stuff you’re willin’ to put afore shipwrecked men?”
“It’s de same as our own crew gets, an’ I ’lows as how you’se kin make out ef yer berry hungry,” the cook replied, angrily, turning to re-enter the galley.
“Don’t answer me back, you black villain, or I’ll break every bone in your body!” and the man sprang to his feet with a show of rage.
“I’se gwine ter say wha’ I wants ter,” Andy replied, angrily. “I’se de cook ob dis yere craft, an’ ef yer spectin’ ter git grub, dere ain’ no call fur yippin’.”
“Hold your tongue!” the fellow cried, seizing his tin plate of food and hurling it at the old darkey’s head.