"You'll jolly well have to," declared Harborough grimly. "There's no room for idlers on this craft. Can you cook?"
"Yes, sah, me berry good cook," assented the black, and immediately he broke into a loud roar of laughter until he had to hold his sides as the tears streamed down his face.
The laugh was distinctly infectious. There was something so boisterously gusty in the merriment that every one of the Titania's crew on deck began smiling in varying degrees of intensity.
"What about your cooking?" inquired Harborough, whose face was puckered in a multitude of crinkles.
"Me cook aboard de Lucy M. Partington, three-masted schooner from N'Orleans to Naples," explained the black. "Me cook berry well all de time. One day de fellah played a prank, an' put Epsom-salts in the sugar canister. I made Spotted Dick for de Ole Man—pardon, sah, de Captain, I mean—an' dere you are."
Another tornado of laughter followed.
"And what happened then?" prompted Harborough.
"Ole Man kick me out at Gib.," replied the nigger soberly. "Big gum-boots, too," he added, with painful reminiscence.
"Well, carry on in the galley," ordered the skipper of the Titania. "None of your Epsom-salt touches here, remember, or you'll find my boot heavier than the Lucy M. Partington's Old Man's. What's your name?"
"Pete, sah; Pete Johnson."