“Yes, Jack, I’ve been paying tribute to Neptune lately.”
“You looks like it, Miles, judgin’ by the colour o’ your jib. Where away now?”
“Going for our soup.”
“What! made you cook o’ the mess?”
“Ay; don’t you wish you were me?”
Another roll and flash of spray ended the conversation and separated the friends.
The pea-soup was ready when our hero reached the galley. Having filled the mess-tureen with the appetising mixture, he commenced the return journey with great care, for he was now dependent entirely on his legs, both hands being engaged. Miles was handy, if we may say so, with his legs. Once or twice he had to rush and thrust a shoulder against the bulwarks, and a dash of spray served for salt to the soup; but he was progressing favourably and had traversed full three-quarters of the distance to the hatch when a loud “Hooroo!” caused him to look round smartly.
He had just time to see Corporal Flynn, who had slipped and fallen, come rolling towards him like a sack of flour. Next moment he was swept off his legs, and went into the lee scuppers with his comrade in a bath of pea-soup and salt-water!
Fortunately, the obliging wave which came in-board at the same moment mingled with the soup, and saved both men from a scalding.
Such mishaps, however, were rare, and they served rather to enliven the voyage than otherwise.