"There's the breakfast bell," said Mr. Mizzen. "Sorry to interrupt, but we mustn't let it get cold. We'll hold the election afterwards."
No one waited to hear Mr. Punch's joke. The Able Seaman led the way, and all the others followed him down the deck, towards a kind of three-sided box which opened on a stairway below.
In a moment or two they found themselves in the dining-saloon, and in another moment they were seated about a round table, set for breakfast. The passengers insisted on the Able Seaman's sitting down with them, and he consented to do so.
A lad of about eighteen entered, to wait on the table. He had a shock of bright red hair, and a kind of frightened look in his eyes, as if he were afraid he would do everything wrong, and would always be in hot water about it. He stood behind the Able Seaman's chair, and began to make a queer contortion of the face, in an effort to speak.
"Th-th-th-there's—" he began.
"Skipper first," interrupted Mr. Mizzen, nodding towards Freddie.
The Cabin-boy (for that was what he was) went to Freddie's chair, and began to speak again, with the same contortion of the face.
"Th-th-th-there's ch-ch-chops, s-s-s-steak, b-b-b-bacon and eggs," he said.
"Yes, sir," said Freddie.