Roy made a wry face.
“Come on, lad,” suggested the purser, pulling on his coat. “No old ship’s grub for us to-day. We’ll have a bite of real southern cooking.”
He hooked his arm in Roy’s and they hustled up the gangplank and down the wharf toward a near-by restaurant, where they had chicken gumbo soup, fried chicken, hot corn bread, Mexican coffee, so strong it almost made Roy sick, and a number of other dishes that were strange and wonderful to Roy.
The purser was feeling very complacent by the time they returned to the ship.
“What do we do next?” asked Roy. “I’m eager to learn some more about a purser’s work.”
“We’re going to tackle a little job that is always part of this purser’s business when he is in Galveston, and that will be as interesting to you, I suspect, as it is new.”
He leaned forward and punched the call bell. In a few moments Sam, the steward, appeared.
“What can I do for yuh, Mistah Robbins, suh?” he inquired, bowing and smiling.
“You know that little job I always do down here with a pound of white meat, Sam?”
“’Deed I does, suh,” chuckled the darky, grinning from ear to ear.