In the teeth of this he burnt the soup horribly the very next day. The
crew sent the lucky foretopman aft again. He made his scrape and
presented his fid. The captain tasted the soup, and sent Mr. Grey to bid
the boatswain's mate pipe the hands on deck and bring the cook aft.
"Quartermaster, unsling a fire-bucket and fill it from the men's kids:
Mr. Tickell, see the cook swallow his own mess. Bosen's mate, take a
bight of the flying jib sheet stand over him, and start him if he dailies
with it." With this the captain went below, and the cook, supping at the
bucket delivered himself as follows: "Well, ye lubbers, it is first--
rate. _There's_ no burn in it. It goes down like oil. Curse your ladylike
stomachs; you ain't fit for a ship; why don't ye go ashore and man a
gingerbread coach and feed off French frogs and Italian baccy-pipe stems?
(Whack.) What the ---- is that for?"
_Boatswain's mate._ "Sup more, and jaw less."
"Well, I am supping as fast as I can. (Whack, whack.) Bloody end to ye,
what are ye about? (Whack, whack, whack.) Oh, Joe, Lord bless you, I
_can't_ eat any more of it.
Pages:
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270