‘Looks like soup an’ bully ’ithout the bully,’ answered the man addressed, who was pouring a steaming mixture out of a tin which he had just taken from over the big slush lamp—‘But it says on the paper “Ju-li-enne.” Sounds as if some woman had a hand in it. It don’t go very high,’ he resumed, after a few mouthfuls, ‘seems thinnish-like—no body—give us some o’ your meat to mix with it, Nestor.’
‘’Taint meat,’ said the old man. ‘It’s what they calls jugged ’are, and there’s no bones in it.’
‘Pity we couldn’t manage to hot this duff up,’ sighed one, cutting a huge slice off a big plum pudding; ‘but they’d smell it all over the ship.’
‘The cake for me!’ exclaimed another, attacking one of Gunter’s masterpieces. ‘I ain’t seen a three-decker like this since I was a kid, an’ used to hang about smellin’ at the tip-top cook-shops in the Mile-End Road!’
‘Wade in, my bullies, an’ line yer ribs,’ croaked old Nestor. ‘It’s the spiciest Sunday’s feed I’ve ’ad in forty year o’ the sea. I kin do three months chokey at the end o’ this trip, flyin’; an’ kin live on the smell of an [42] ]oil rag all the time! If we on’y ’ad a few nips a-piece, now, it would be parfect!’
. . . . . . . . . .
Midnight in the hold of the Sardanapalus. Four red spots moving slowly about in the thick gloom. From the irregular, tightly-packed mass proceeds all sorts of eerie creakings and groanings. The ship is pitching into a head sea and, at times, a wave catching her a thunderous slap, makes her seem to fairly stand still and shudder all over. The atmosphere is thick, and stuffy with an indescribable stuffiness. Presently the four points of light clustered together.
‘What is it, I wonder?’ said Billy, sticking his candle into a crevice, and pointing to a long, square, narrow case embedded in a pile of others.
‘Don’t know,’ replied another, stooping. ‘Got no marks, only “Ex Sardinapples—With great care.” Had any luck, you two?’
‘Try this,’ answered one, holding out a bottle which old Nestor immediately clutched.