“That means,” explained the keeper, “that he was out last night practicin’ on a beat, and so took an early cup of coffee; but we will show him to–night what a real beat is.”
“That’s so!” said Tom Walker. “Them fancy beats don’t amount to nothin’, beside the real article.”
Walter felt at home at once, and declared that he guessed he would try “Cook Charlie’s biscuit.”
“Biscuit! Try them fried taters too. One of ’em would keep you a–goin’ a hull day,” declared the cook.
“You look as if they had done a good work for you,” said Woodbury Elliott to the cook. Something had fatted up “Cook Charlie” as he was generally called. But what business has a cook to be lean? The presiding genius of the kitchen, certainly ought to give in his own body proof of his skill. A lean cook is an inconsistency; while in a fat cook there is a fitness. And then what right has a cook to be cross? A good dinner begets a good temper; and the cook ought to be sweet–natured always. A lean, cross cook, is an inconsistency. Cook Charlie, was of the kind that harmonizes with the cheerful, comforting nature of the kitchen stove. All the surfmen were at the breakfast table excepting Silas Fay, whose place Walter intended to temporarily fill. There was the sandy haired keeper, and there was Tom Walker, with his big bushy beard,—a shaggy kind of an animal. Next to Tom, sat Woodbury Elliott, his blue eyes flashing out occasional glances of welcome toward Walter. If Cook Charlie was fat, “Slim” Tarleton was lean; and his first name was bestowed upon him on account of this peculiarity. He was Capt. Barney’s bony neighbor on the left. Next to Slim, came two brothers, Seavey, and Nathan Lowd. They were quiet, inoffensive young men, whose peculiarity was a grin on every possible occasion, excepting a funeral. They were twins, resembling one another closely; but showed this difference, that Nathan grinned more than Seavey. There was one more at the table,—Joe Cardridge, a black–haired, black–eyed man, on whose face was a cynical expression, as if he was continually out of humor with the world, and wished to show it by a sneer. Nobody liked his discontented, jealous disposition, and it was the keeper’s purpose to get rid of him at the first opportunity. He was an excellent boatman, and this merit had secured him the position of surfman. It was true indeed of all the crew; their knowledge of boating, gained in many trips after cod and pollock, halibut and haddock, constituted their special fitness for the life saving service. They were strong, hardy, muscular fellows, and Slim Tarleton—bony, but tough—was no exception.
After breakfast, the keeper led Walter upstairs.
“I want to tell you where you will bunk, Walter, and I guess you had better take Silas’ bed. Here it is.”
“Who sleeps next?”
“Woodbury Elliott there, and Tom Walker on this side. Each man of the crew is numbered, and you will take Silas’ number, six. You are Surfman Six.”
“That’s good. Now, I’ve been round over the station, and know it pretty well. Could you just give me an insight into the boat–room, more of an idea of it?”