“Hey, you! Where you goin’?” called a voice from the porch behind him, and a man he had not seen before ran down the steps. Just then a large handbell was rung somewhere within the building.
“Come in and get yer chow,” called the man.
Bill felt that he would certainly cause suspicion if he refused to obey this suggestion. Moreover, he was thirsty and half famished. So he walked back to the steps.
“I reckon you’re one of the new hands on the yacht,” observed the man.
“That’s right,” admitted Bill.
“Thought so, when I seen yer beatin’ down toward the harbor just afore dinner time. The boss feeds us swell here. Has to, with this gang to look after. Men get easy discontented in a sweatbox like this here island. How’s the grub aboard the Pelican?. Useter be pretty bad.”
“I’ve eaten worse,” said Bill.
“Well, come along in and feed here today,” turning back up the steps with him. “It’s a hot walk along that shell road, and I’ll need yer to help herd some of them prisoners down there later on.”
Bill followed him into the building. This time he found the large room deserted, and passing through a doorway to the right, the two entered a big hall, down the middle of which ran two long, narrow tables.
The men were already seated at dinner, and nobody paid the slightest attention to the new arrivals. Bill’s companion took his place at the head of a table and motioned the lad to a vacant seat just below. A pitcher of what proved to be lemonade was within Bill’s reach. He filled and emptied his glass three times before he began to feel refreshed. A slatternly negress placed a plate piled high with fried chicken, rice and fried plantains before him and he dug into it with the relish of a starved man.