“It’s pizon, sir,” said Ned, shaking his head. “The meat’s awful.”
“It’s as sweet as nuts,” said the skipper. “Well, you can have it out of the other tank if you like. Will that satisfy you?”
The men brightened up a little and nudged each other.
“The butters bad too, sir,” said Bill.
“Butter bad!” said the skipper frowning, “how’s that, cook?”
“I ain’t done nothing to it, sir,” said the cook helplessly.
“Give ’em butter out o’ the firkin in the cabin,” growled the skipper. “It’s my firm belief you’d been ill-using that boy, the food was delicious.”
He walked off, taking the letter with him, and, propping it up against the sugar-basin, made but a poor breakfast.
For that day the men lived, as Ned put it, on the fat of the land, in addition to the other luxuries figgy duff, a luxury hitherto reserved for Sundays, being also served out to them. Bill was regarded as a big-brained benefactor of the human race; joy reigned in the foc’sle, and at night the hatch was taken off and the prisoner regaled with a portion which had been saved for him. He ate it ungratefully, and put churlish and inconvenient questions as to what was to happen at the end of the voyage.
“We’ll smuggle you ashore all right,” said Bill, “none of us are going to sign back in this old tub. I’ll take you aboard some ship with me—Eh?”