The captain called through the skylight: ‘Wilkins, bring me some tea and a biscuit up here.’
‘Ay, ay, sir.’
‘Pray,’ said I, ‘when and where does the captain dine?’
‘I took his dinner to his cabin,’ responded the young fellow; ‘he mostly eats there. But now you’re here, I allow he’ll be a-jining of you.’
‘This is no meal for you, Miss Temple,’ said I, with a glance at the old teapot and the small plate of biscuits which furnished out the repast. ‘No milk—brown sugar—no butter, of course!’ Wilkins grinned whilst he poured out some tea into a cup. ‘You’ve had nothing to eat since we first came aboard.’
‘I want nothing,’ she answered.
‘Well, then, I do,’ said I. ‘Captain Braine is quite right. Shipwreck doesn’t impair the appetite.’
‘There’ll be supper at seven, sir,’ said Wilkins.
‘And what do you call supper?’ I inquired.
‘Why,’ answered the fellow, ‘there’ll be the beef ye had this morning, piccalillis, bottled stout, biscuit after this here pattern, and cold currant dumplings.’