“Of cou’se, I’se jes’ fillin’ in till th’ regular cook gits well. Mebbe you seen him when you come aboard. He was all spraddled out. It mighty near done for big Jiminez, I’se a-tellin’ you.”
“What happened to him?” breathlessly demanded Miss Hollister, her hands clasped.
“He done fetch th’ cap’n a cup of cold coffee, ma’am.”
“How awful! And what was the matter with the white man in the khaki uniform?”
“He tried to say a good word for th’ cook. And th’ cap’n done give him his. This is a lively ship, ma’am.”
He could not help grinning as he turned to leave, and Nora Forbes caught him in the act.
“You are an utterly shameless prevaricator,” cried she, “and I have a notion to report you to the captain.”
“No need of it,” exclaimed O’Shea himself, who appeared in time to grasp the luckless George by the neck and pitch him down the stairway to the lower deck.
“He is a good cook, but his imagination is too strong for him at times,” explained O’Shea as he stood in the door-way, declining Nora’s invitation to enter. “The both of ye look as lovely as a May morning. It agrees with you to be shipwrecked.”
Miss Hollister thawed a trifle, although she was strongly inclined to accept the cook’s story as after the fact. But it was hard resisting the blarneying sailor with the merry eyes.