We all sat upon the beach enjoying the beauty of the late evening. The Bo's'n made us some coffee, and with ship's biscuit, oysters, a small bit of pork, water from the arch beneath the rock, and some guavas and mangoes to top off with, we made an excellent meal.
"You have given us a very nice supper, Bo's'n," volunteered Cynthia. "I find that a row like that gives one an appetite."
"Perhaps it was gettin' married, miss," remarked the Bo's'n, "though it usually takes away the appetite, ma'm. This you know"—waving his hands comprehensively over the remains of the feast—"is the wedding breakfast, Mrs. and Mr. Jones, sir."
Cynthia gave a start and glanced hurriedly at me. I must confess that it had never occurred to me that Cynthia would take my name—that is, not since she said on board the Yankee that "Jones was impossible." She got very red, and turned away and walked with Lacelle up the hill. The Skipper was taking his usual glass. He poured out a double amount. He held the cup out to the Minion, who, pale and headachy, was lying with his back to the dish of pork.
"Take some," said the Skipper, with his favourite addition, "It won't do you any good."
The Minion for reply edged away and closed his eyes. We sat silent a while as the Bo's'n washed his utensils and gathered up the remains of my wedding breakfast.
The Skipper was saying something about the horrors of the married state, when we heard the voice of Cynthia calling to him.
"What is it?" shouted back the Skipper.
Then we heard a sentence which ended with "gone."
"No, he's here."