“Never mind, bring out the loaf, Tommy.”
“An’ there ain’t no use,” continued the boy, “o’ bringin’ out the teapot, ’cause there ain’t a grain o’ tea nowheres.”
“Oh! I forgot,” returned old Liz, slightly confused; “I’ve just run out o’ tea, Cap’n Blake, an’ I haven’t a copper at present to buy any, but—”
“Never mind that old girl; and I ain’t quite captain yet, though trendin’ in that direction. You come out along wi’ me, Tommy. I’ll soon putt these matters to rights.”
Old Liz could not have remonstrated even if she had wished to do so, for her impulsive visitor was gone in a moment followed by his extremely willing little friend. They returned in quarter of an hour.
“There you are,” said the seaman, taking the articles one by one from a basket carried by Tommy; “a big loaf, pound o’ butter, ditto tea, three pound o’ sugar, six eggs, hunk o’ cheese, paper o’ salt—forgot the pepper; never mind.”
“You’ve bin an’ forgot the sassengers too—but here they are,” said Tommy, plucking the delectable viands from the bottom of the basket with a look of glee, and laying them on the table.
Chimney-pot Liz did not look surprised; she only smiled and nodded her head approvingly, for she felt that Sam Blake understood the right thing to do and did it.
Soon the celebrated teapot was going the round, full swing, while the air was redolent of fried sausage and cheese mingled with the perfume of roses and mignonette, for this meal, you must know, was eaten in the garden in the afternoon sunshine, while the cooking—done in the attic which opened on the garden—was accomplished by Sam assisted by Tommy.
“Well, you air a trump,” said the latter to the former as he sat down, greasy and glowing, beside the seaman at the small table where old Liz presided like a humble duchess.