“I think we’ll wait till we pass the South Sands light,” replied the pilot. “Then we can round the Foreland handsomely on the starboard tack with the wind well abaft our beam.”
“All right!” was Captain Gillespie’s laconic response, rubbing his hands gleefully together again. “Carry-on.”
Noticing Tom Jerrold just then on the main-deck, I went down from off the poop and joined him.
“Have you had any breakfast?” he asked when I got up to him, patting his stomach significantly. “I was just thinking of getting mine as I feel very empty here, for all the rest have had theirs.”
“No, I haven’t had anything but some coffee the cook brought me a long while ago, and I feel hungry too,” I replied. “Where do we get our meals?”
“In the cuddy, after the captain and mates have done grubbing,” he said. “Come along with me and we’ll rouse up that Portugee steward.”
“What! Pedro?”
“Yes; you’ve made his acquaintance already, I see. Did you notice anything particular about him?”
“Only his temper,” I said. “Dear me, hasn’t he got an awful one!”
“Bless you he only puts half of it on to try and frighten you if you’re a new hand,” replied Jerrold as he jauntily walked into the cuddy with the air of a commodore. “Only give him a little backsheesh and he’ll do anything for you.”