No one was drowned. The natives took good care of the captain, mate, and supercargo, and helped them to save all they could. But Lannigan had a heavy loss—the bag of copper bolts had gone to the bottom.
THE COOK OF THE “SPREETOO SANTOO”—A STUDY IN BEACHCOMBERS
We were in Kitti Harbour, at Ponape, in the Carolines, when, at breakfast, a bleary-eyed, undersized, more-or-less-white man in a dirty pink shirt and dungaree pants, came below, and, slinging his filthy old hat over to the transoms, shoved himself into a seat between the mate and Jim Garstang, the trader.
“Mornin', captin,” said he, without looking at the skipper, and helping himself to about two pounds of curry.
“Morning to you. Who the deuce are you, anyway? Are you the old bummer they call 'Espiritu Santo'?” said Garstang.
“That's me. I'm the man. But I ain't no bummer, don't you b'lieve it. I wos tradin' round here in these (lurid) islands afore you coves knowed where Ponape was.”
“Are you the skunk that Wardell kicked off the Shenandoah for stealing a bottle of wine?” said the mate.
“That's me. There was goin' ter be trouble over that on'y that the Shennydor got properly well sunk by the Allybarmer (history wasn't his forte), and that ——— Wardell got d———d well drownded. Hingland haint a-goin' to let no Yankee insult nobody for nuthin'—an' I'm a blessed Englishman. I didn't steal the wine. Yer see, Wardell arst me off to dinner, and then we gets talkin' about polertics, an' I tells 'im 'e wos a lyin' pirut. Then he started foolin' around my woman, an' I up with a bottle of wine an'——”