"Well, Fred, have you got a good supply at last?" she cries, taking hold of the rope, and putting her foot on the step.
Fred mumbles something in reply.
"What have you got?" she says, when she is on deck. "Any game?"
"No, mem."
"Oh, never mind; the fowls will do very well."
Fred is rather silent, until he explains that he could not get any fowls.
"No fowls? What butcher's meat, then?" says she, somewhat indignantly.
"None? Nothing?" says she; and a low titter begins to prevail among the assembled crowd. "Have you not got a joint of any sort?"
Fred is almost unwilling to confess—he is ashamed, angry, disconcerted. At last he blurts out—
"I could get nothing at all, mem, but fower loaves."