“Yes, sir; certainly, sir,” said Mr Mackay soothingly, taking no notice of his manner to him and judiciously turning the conversation. “Do you think, though, sir, we can carry those topgallants much longer? The wind seems to have freshened again after sunset, the same as it did last night.”
“Carry-on? Aye, of course we can. The old barquey could almost stand the royals as well, with this breeze well abeam,” replied “Old Jock,” who never agreed with anyone right out if he could possibly help, especially now when he was in a bit of temper about the stowaway; but, the next instant, like the thorough seaman he was, seeing the wisdom of the first mate’s advice, he qualified what he had previously said. “If it freshens more, though, between this and eight bells, you can take in the topgallants if you like, and a reef in the topsails as well. It will save bother, perhaps, bye and bye, as the night will be a darkish one and the weather is not too trustworthy.”
Captain Gillespie then went down the companion into the cuddy to have his tea; and Mr Mackay, thinking I ought to be hungry after all my sacrifices to Neptune, advised me to go down below and get some too.
I was hungry, but I did not care about tea, the flavour of the pea-soup the stowaway had been plied with having roused my appetite; so, receiving Mr Mackay’s permission, instead of seeking out the steward Pedro, I paid a visit to Ching Wang in his galley forward.
“Hi, lilly pijjin,” cried this worthy, receiving me far more pleasantly than I’m sure the Portuguese would have done, for as I passed under the break of the poop I heard the latter clattering his tins about in the pantry, as if he were in a rage at something. “What you wanchee—hey?”
I soon explained my wants; and, without the slightest demur, he ladled out a basinful of soup for me out of one of the coppers gently stewing over the galley fire, which looked quite bright and nice as the evening was chilly. The good-natured Chinaman also gave me a couple of hard ship’s biscuits which he took out of a drawer in the locker above the fireplace, where they were kept dry.
“Hi, you eatee um chop chop,” said he, as he handed me the basin and the biscuits and made me sit down on a sort of settle in the galley opposite the warm fire—“makee tummee tummee all right.”
The effects of this food were as wonderful in my instance as in that of the poor starved bricklayer shortly before; for, when I had eaten the last biscuit crumb and drained the final drop of pea-soup from the basin, I felt a new man, or rather boy—Allan Graham himself, and not the wretched feeble nonentity I had been previously.
Of course, I thanked Ching Wang for his kindness as I rose up from the settle to go away, on the starboard watch, who were just relieved from their duty on deck, coming for their tea; but the Chinee only shook his head with a broad smile on his yellow face, as if deprecating any return for his kind offices.
“You goodee pijjin and chin chin when you comee,” he only said, “and when you wanchee chow-chow, you comee Ching Wang and him gettee you chop chop!”