“Reckon the Pelican’s chow ain’t so good, the way you tackle yer dinner,” laughed the man at the table’s head.
“If they have fried chicken aboard, it never gets for’ard of the cabin,” Bill grinned back. He knew that his identity might be discovered at any time and planned to make the most of the meal while he could.
“I run the commissariat and the men here at the barracks,” his new acquaintance informed him. “Y’ got to feed ’em right to keep ’em contented. The boss is liberal. ‘He knows his oats. Bum chow makes fer fights and knifin’s in this climate.”
Bill nodded and kept on eating. A man further down the table raised his voice above the clatter of cutlery on dishes and the hum of conversation.
“Did you hear about the two guys that blew in here on a plane this morning, Tom?” he asked the man at the end of the table.
“I sure did,” laughed that person. “I guess they didn’t know what they was bumpin’ into when they hit Shell Island. You guys won’t have to take so many trips to the mainland if suckers come here of their own accord, eh?”
The laughter became general. The men apparently enjoyed the joke.
“Where are they now?” inquired another.
“Tony and Diego’s got them over to the calaboose. They was up to the big house and Martinengo looked ’em over. It’s Bolton, the sugar millionaire, and his boy.”
“The boss could squeeze a bunch o’ kale outen that pair!”