Fitz the Filibuster Part 10

"Splendid!" he cried. "I never enjoyed anything so much before in my life."

And all that about a dingy basin of soup with fragments of onion and spots of fat floating therein. But it was the first real meal of returning health.

CHAPTER NINE.

A MON FRAE THE NORTH.

Poole looked as solemn and calm as a judge as he raised the soup-basin and listened to his patient's words, while all at once a suspicious thought glanced through Fitz's brain, and he looked at the lad quickly and felt relieved, for no one could have imagined from the grave, stolid face before him that mirth like so much soda-water was bubbling and twinkling as it effervesced all through the being of the skipper's son.

"I couldn't have held it in any longer," said Poole to himself, with a sigh of relief, for just then the door clicked and the Camel's head came slowly in with the red eyes glowing and watchful.

Then seeing that the meal was ended he came right in, and took basin and spoon from Poole as if they were his own special property.

"Feel better, laddie?" he said, with a grin at the patient.

"Oh yes, thank you, cook," was the genial reply. "Capital soup."

"Ay," said the Camel seriously, "and ye'll just take the same dose every morning at twa bells till you feel as if you can eat salt-junk like a mon. Ah weel, ah weel! They make a fine flather about doctors and their stuff, but ye mind me there isn't another as can do a sick mon sae much good as the cook."

"Hear that, Mr Burnett?"

"Oh yes, I hear," said Fitz, smiling, with a look of content upon his features to which they had for many days been strangers.

"I am not going to say a word the noo aboot the skipper, and what he's done. He's a grand mon for a hole or a cut or a bit broken leg. He's got bottles and poothers of a' kinds, but when the bit place is mended it's the cook that has to do the rigging up. You joost stick to Andy Cawmell, and he'll make a man of you in no time."

"Thank you, cook," said Fitz, smiling.

"And ye'll be reet. But if ye'd no' mind, ye'll joost kindly say 'Andy mon,' or 'laddie' when you speak to me. It seems more friendly than 'cook.' Ye see, cook seems to belang more to a sonsy la.s.sie than a mon.

Just let it be 'Andy' noo."

"All right; I'll mind," said the middy, who looked amused.

"Ah, it's a gran' thing, cooking, and stands first of all, for it keeps every one alive and strong. They talk a deal about French cooks and their kickshaws, and about English cooks, and I'm no saying but that some English cooks are very decent bodies; but when you come to Irish, Ould Oireland, as they ca' it, there's only one thing that ever came from there, and that's Irish stew."

"What about taters, Andy?"

"Why, isna that part of it? Who ever heard of an Irish stew without taters? That's Irish taters, my lad, but if you want a real good Irish stew you must ha'e it made of Scotch mutton and Scotch potatoes, same as we've got on board now. And joost you bide a wee, laddies, till we get across the ocean, and if there's a s.h.i.+p to be found there, I'll just show you the truth of what I mean. Do ye mind me, laddie?" continued the cook, fixing Fitz tightly with his red eyes.

"Mind you? Yes," said Fitz; "but what do you want with a s.h.i.+p to make a stew in?"

"What do I want with a s.h.i.+p?" said Andy, looking puzzled. "Why, to cook!"

"Cook a s.h.i.+p?"

"Ah, sure. Won't a bit of mutton be guid after so much salt and tinned beef?"

"Oh, a sheep!" cried Fitz.

"Ay, I said so: a s.h.i.+p. Your leg of mutton, or a shouther are all very good in their way, but a neck makes the best Irish stew. But bide a wee till we do get hold of a s.h.i.+p, and I'll make you a dish such as will make you say you'll never look at an Irish stew again."

"Oh!" cried Poole. "He means one of those--"

"Nay, nay, nay! Let me tell him, laddie. He never ken'd such a thing on board a man-o'-war. D'ye ken the national dish, Mr Burnett, sir?"

"Of course," said Fitz; "the roast beef of old England."

"Pugh!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the Scot. "Ye don't know. Then I'll tell ye. Joost gi'e me the liver and a few ither wee bit innards, some oatmeal, pepper, salt, an onion, and the bahg, and I'll make you a dish that ye'll say will be as good as the heathen deities lived on."

"Do you know what that was?" said Fitz.

"Ay, laddie; it was a kind of broth, or brose--ambrose, they called it, but I dinna believe a word of it. Ambrose, they ca'ed it! But how could they get hahm or brose up in the clouds? A'm thinking that the heathen G.o.ds didn't eat at all, but sippit and suppit the stuff they got from the top of a mountain somewhere out in those pairts--I've read it all, laddies, in an auld book called _Pantheon_--mixed with dew, mountain-dew."

"Nonsense!" cried Fitz, breaking into a pleasant laugh.

"Nay, it's no nonsense, laddie. I've got it all down, prented in a book. Ambrosia, the chiel ca'ed it, because he didn't know how to spell, and when I came to thenk I see it all as plain as the nose on your face. It was not ambrose at all, but Athol brose."

"And what's that?" cried Fitz.

"Hech, mon! And ye a young laird and officer and dinna ken what Athol brose is!"

"No," said Fitz; "we learnt so much Greek and Latin at my school that we had to leave out the Scotch."

"Hearken to him, young Poole Reed! Not to know that! But it is Greek-- about the Greek G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses. And ye dinna ken what Athol brose is?"

"No," said Fitz; "I never heard of it in my life."

"Weel, then, I'll just tell ye, though it's nae good for boys. It's joost a meexture half honey and half whisky, or mountain-dew; and noo ye ken."

"But you are not going to make a mess like that when you get a sheep."

"s.h.i.+p, laddie--s.h.i.+p. If ye ca' it like that naebody will think ye mean a mutton that goes on four feet."

"Well, p.r.o.nounce it your own way," said Fitz. "But what is this wonderful dish you mean to make?"

"He means kidney-broth, made with the liver," said Poole.

"Nay, nay. Dinna you mind him, laddie. He only said that to make you laugh. You bide a wee, and I'll make one fit for a Queen. You've never tasted haggis, but some day you shall."

Andy Cawmell closed one eye and gave the convalescent what was intended for a very mysterious, confidential look, and then stole gravely out of the cabin, closed the door after him, and opened it directly after, to thrust in his head, the basin, and the spoon.

"D'ye mind, laddie," he whispered, tapping the basin, "at twa bells every day the meexture as before."

He closed the door again, and this time did not return, though Fitz waited for a few moments before speaking, his eyes twinkling now with merriment.

"Haggis!" he cried. "Scotch haggis! Of course, I know. It's mincemeat boiled in the bag of the pipes with the pipes themselves chopped up for bones. You've heard of it before?"