One night, some days after the incident just recorded, the Evening Star shot her gear, in obedience to orders, on the port hand, and proceeded, with the rest of the fleet, to give a pressing invitation to those fish which inhabited that particular shoal in the North Sea known to fishermen by the name of Skimlico. The name, when properly spelt, runs thus: Schiermonik-oog. But our fishermen, with a happy disregard of orthography, and, perhaps, with an eye to that brevity which is said to be the soul of wit, prefer to call it Skimlico.
When the gear was down the men retired to their little cabin to refresh themselves with a meal and a pipe.
The skipper, who had recovered neither his spirits nor his self-respect since his recent fall, preferred to remain on deck. Billy, who had never lost either, joined the revellers below—with all the more satisfaction that Evan, the rescued mate of the Sparrow, was with them.
“Out o’ the road, Zulu,” cried Ned Spivin, pushing the cook aside, and sitting down close to the fire, “I’ll have a bit o’ fish.”
He stuck on the end of his knife a piece of sole, out of which the life had barely departed, and held it up before the fire to roast.
“Hand me a mug o’ tea, an’ a biscuit, Zulu,” said Joe Davidson; “fill it up, boy. I like good measure.”
“Are them taters ready?” asked Luke Trevor. “An’ the plum-duff? You haven’t got any for us to-day, have ’ee?”
“Shut up!” cried Zulu. “How many hands you tink I’ve got?”
“Eight at the very least,” said Spivin, “an’ I can prove it.”
“How you do dat?” asked Zulu, opening up his great eyes.