“Them ain’t pickles, you bloke; them’s holives,” said Bill, grinning.
“Wot’s that but another name for—”
Abe’s answer was cut short by the long-expected appearance of Lucy, and both men were soon doing full justice to the dinner, which included beefsteak and onions, fried sole with anchovy sauce, and a pot of stout; besides half a dozen minor dishes, all of which they relished as only men can who have lived for some time on ship’s stores.
At last Bill said: “Well, Abe, ain’t you most done? I’m full to the hatches.”
“Oh, sir, your honors ’asn’t ’ad the sweets yet,” expostulated Lucy. “We’ve got some lovely tarts, and a duff, and—”
“Duff! Bring us a whole one, quick!” cried Abe.
“We’ve eat too much,” said Bill. “I never thought of the duff, or I wouldn’t have eaten all this other truck. We’ll never be able to finish a whole one.”
“Yes we will, too,” Abe maintained; so the dainty was placed before them, and they fell to with a will. But both soon found that their eyes were larger than their stomachs, and though Abe ate more than his companion, even he had to stop before more than a third of the duff had been dispatched.
“It’s too bad we ’ave to leave it,” he said regretfully.
An alarming idea suddenly struck Bill. “Suppose we ain’t got money enough to pay for all these things we’ve ’ad,” he whispered fearfully. They asked for their reckoning, and alas! Bill’s surmise proved correct.