“All right,” said Commander Nesbitt, when I reached the poop and repeated Mr Jellaby’s message, the import of which he already knew from the stoppage of all movement below, and the report of the boatswain from the forecastle that the anchor was “a short stay apeak”; when, advancing to the rail, he called out in a louder key, “Bosun’s mate, pipe the hands to breakfast!”
Chapter Twelve.
Below in the Gunroom.
“Well!” exclaimed little Tommy Mills, a little later, when he and I, with young Morgan, the mate and Ned Anstruther, on being relieved by the starboard watch, all went down to the gunroom and sat down to have our breakfast, “I call this a beastly shame.”
“Hullo,” said Popplethorne, one of the other middies, looking up from the plate on which he was busily engaged; while several other fellows, similarly employed ceased operations likewise, staring at Tommy in astonishment. “What’s up?”
“Nothing’s up, but everything seems down,” replied my little chum in an aggrieved tone. “I don’t see a crumb left for a poor, hungry chap; no bloaters, no marmalade, no nothing. When I was in the Illustrious, if they did grind a fellow a bit, one always had something decent to eat, at all events!”
“First come, first served,” mumbled Phil Plumper, the senior mate of our watch, who had his mouth full and was tucking in some species of “burgoo,” or porridge with much gusto. He was an awfully fat fellow and looked just like a boiled lobster bursting out of its shell, for the buttons of his jacket were continually carrying away at odd moments. “If you don’t look out for yourself on board ship you’ll find nobody ’ll look after you; and, you’ll come off minus!”
“That’ll never be your case,” retorted Tommy, with a snigger. “Judging by appearances, I should say your condition represents a plus quantity!”