'Trim sail!' shouted Captain Glew; and he continued to bawl as he walked slowly forwards: 'Brace forward the topsail-yard! Ease away the weather braces! Get a drag on your jib-sheets!' And it was clear, by the manner in which he delivered these orders to the men, that he had been watching and thinking of them all the time they had been talking about him.
All was quiet after this. The moon rolled down into the sea, the shadow of the earth slipped off the eastern horizon, and the schooner floated into another tropical morning, wide and high with cloudless splendour. Nothing was in sight.
The date was December 15, 1837.
At half-past eleven, the steward, a man named Gordon, who had been shipped for cabin duty, but who had sailed on many occasions as an able seaman, so that his sympathies were wholly with the forecastle, went to the harness-cask, and, unlocking it, picked over some pieces of meat, brine-whitened, and carried two cubes of the flesh forward to the cook.
'What's this for?' says Allan. 'Here's stink enough. The pork's measly bad to-day!'
'Samples for the cabin table,' said the steward, Gordon, dabbing the flabby offal down on the dresser.
'Ho!' says the cook. 'They'd best be cooked separate, I suppose. The stench'll break the young lady's heart if they're boiled in them coppers.'
'Cook 'em as you like. That's your business,' said Gordon. 'It's for one o'clock.'
'Who's going to eat 'em?'