One of them was a large, strong man, with a shaggy head of hair and a beard like rope-yarns. He looked as though he had taken a header and come up again to blow crowned with black seaweed. This strong man suddenly, and with a sulky fury of gesture, whipped the knife out of the sheath that was strapped to his hip, and, plunging it into a lump of pork, lifted the horrid block into the air, and cried out—
"Here it is agin!"
As he pronounced these words, the little square of hatch was obscured by the interposition of a man's body.
"THIS IS SWEET MEAT TO PETER."
"The smell of that there pork," said the voice belonging to the body in the hatch, "is something to sit upon, something strong enough to lean agin. Why, a man might turn to and chop them fumes into first-class bunk-boards. Talk o' strength!"
"Come below, cook!" bawled one of the seven men.
"No; I've got to see to the capt'n's dinner. But I'm of ye if there's to be trouble. When I signed it was for wittles and a dry bottom and a ship's company. Pump, pump, and nothen to eat! Nothen to eat and pump, pump! Here's logic as don't tally with this covey's reckoning for one." And the man, violently smiting himself upon the breast, disappeared.
The powerful sailor who had held the pork aloft whilst the cook discoursed, shook it off the blade into the tub again and spat.
"It's about time," said he, "that all hands was agreed."