"Me belong to a country where we no eat pork," he exclaimed, with great gravity, still preserving his wrinkled nose and immensely disgusted expression.
"What country is that?" I asked.
"Hot country, sar," he answered. "But me will eat pork on board ship."
"Very proper."
"But me will not eat stinking pork on board ship or anywhere else," he cried excitedly.
"Is that piece of pork tainted?" I inquired.
"Don't know nuffen 'bout tainted, sar," he replied; "but it smells kinder strong. But not so strong as the liquor where t'other porks was biled in. Nebber smelled de like, sar. Most disgusting. Come and try it, sar. Make you feel queer."
"Pitch the water overboard, then."
"No good, sar. Fork'sle full of stinks, and men grumblin' like hell. Me fust-rate cook, too—but no make a stink sweet. Dat beats me."
He held up the pork, with an expression on his face as if he were about to sneeze, shook his finger at it as though it were something that could be affected by the gesture, and flung it overboard.