“Even so, my friends, should I preserve this pudding and enthrone it in my Brooklyn home to remind me of my lost brandy and of this most extraordinary Thanksgiving. But that is impossible, so follow me.”
He picked the pudding up from the floor and held it out at arm’s length, at the same time leading the way out on deck. Sunday and Tuesday, Flip and Jackson and all the crew forgot what they were about at sight of the queer procession, and Warriner holding out the pudding. He marched over to the lee bulwarks, got on top of an empty box, and began to look at the pudding with a very sorrowful expression, his eyes blinking and his head on one side.
“What the devil is he about?” thinks I.
He looked around at us and wiped his eyes with a silk handkerchief; then held out the blasted pudding in both hands so all of us could see it.
“Gentlemen, behold! This was a plum-pudding. Yea, thou dark and sodden mass, pierced with feathers and baptized in kerosene; thou culinary triumph, concocted by Samuel Warriner and the descendant of Lord Cornwallis;—thou fond inspiration of our brain, which, owing to the combined assaults of Satan and yon sable African, hast so abominably miscarried; we bid thee an eternal farewell!”
“Good G—, if he ain’t blubbering!” whispered Pratt, while Warriner looked so affected that Prince, Cornwallis and me nearly cried.
“Good-by, pudding. Go-od-b-bye,” (heaving it overboard) “and be thou food for worms—I should say, fishes!”
Away it went, and struck the water with a splash. All hands stared until it sunk, and then we looked at Warriner. He had taken up the fog-horn, and just as the pudding went under, he blew a mournful blast.
“May the dear departed rest in peace,” he said, feelingly.
Then we all pulled ourselves together and went back to work.