Fitz the Filibuster Part 9

"Not fair."

"You didn't tell me you could play as well as that."

"Of course not. I wasn't going to brag about my playing. Let's have another game. I think we're about equal."

"No, I'm tired now. I say," added Fitz, after a pause, as he lay watching the draughtsmen being dropped slowly back into the bag, "don't take any notice of what I said. I don't want you to think me c.o.c.ky and bragging. My head worries me, and it makes me feel hot and out of temper, and ready to find fault with everything. We'll have another game some day if I'm kept here a prisoner. Perhaps I shall be able to play better then."

"To be sure you will. But it doesn't matter which side wins. It is only meant for a game."

CHAPTER EIGHT.

A BASIN OF SOUP.

Fitz had just finished his semi-apology when the fastening of the door clicked softly; it was pushed, and a peculiar-looking, s.h.a.ggy head was thrust in. The hair was of a rusty sandy colour, a shade lighter than the deeply-tanned face, while a perpetual grin parted the owner's lips as if he were proud to show his teeth, though, truth to tell, there was nothing to be proud of unless it was their bad shape and size. But the most striking features were the eyes, which somehow or another possessed a fiery reddish tinge, and added a certain fierceness to a physiognomy which would otherwise have been very weak.

Fitz started at the apparition.

"The impertinence!" he muttered. "Here, I say," he shouted now, "who are you?"

"Who am I, laddie?" came in a harsh voice. "Ye ken I'm the cook."

"And what do you want here, sir? Laddie, indeed! Why didn't you knock?"

"Knock!" said the man, staring, as he came right in.

"I didna come to knock: just to give you the word that it's all hot and ready now."

"What's hot and ready?"

"The few broth I've got for you. Ye didna want to be taking doctor's wash now, but good, strong meaty stuff to build up your flesh and bones."

Fitz stared.

"Look here, you, Poole Reed; what does this man mean by coming into my cabin like this? Is he mad?"

"No, no," said Poole, laughing. "It's all right; I'd forgotten. He asked me if he hadn't better bring you something every day now for a bit of lunch. It's all right, Andy. Mr Burnett's quite ready. Go and fetch it."

The man nodded, grinned, in no wise hurt by his reception, and backed out again.

"Rum-looking fellow, isn't he, Mr Burnett?"

"Disgusting-looking person for a cook. Can anybody eat what he prepares?"

"We do," said Poole quietly. "Oh, he keeps his galley beautifully clean, does Andy Campbell--Cawmell, he calls himself, and the lads always call him the Camel. And he works quite as hard."

He had only just spoken when the man returned on the tips of his bare toes, looking, for all the world, like the ordinary able seaman from a man-of-war. He bore no tray, napkin, and little tureen, but just an ordinary s.h.i.+p's basin in one hand, a spoon in the other, and carefully balanced himself as he entered the cabin, swaying himself with the basin so that a drop should not go over the side.

"There y'are, me puir laddie. Ye'll just soop that up before I come back for the bowl. There's pepper and salt in, and just a wee bit onion to make it taste. All made out of good beef, and joost the pheesic to make you strong."

"Give it to me, Andy," cried Poole, and the man placed it in his hands, smiled and nodded at the prisoner, and then backed out with his knees very much bent.

Poole stood stirring the broth in the basin slowly round and round, and spreading a peculiar vulgar odour which at first filled the invalid with annoyance; but as it pervaded the place it somehow began to have a decided effect upon the boy's olfactory nerves and excited within him a strange yearning which drove away every token of disgust.

"It's too hot to give you yet," said Poole quietly. "You must wait a few minutes."

Fitz's first idea had been that he would not condescend to touch what he was ready to dub "a mess." It looked objectionable, being of a strange colour and the surface dotted with yellowish spots of molten fat, while mingled with them were strange streaky pieces of divided onion. But animal food had for many days been a stranger to the sick lad's lips-- and then there was the smell which rapidly became to the boy's nostrils a most fascinating perfume. So that it was in a softened tone that he spoke next, as he watched the slow pa.s.sage round and round of the big metal spoon.

"It doesn't look nice," he said.

"No. s.h.i.+p's soup never does," replied Poole, "but the proof of the pudding is in the eating, you know. The Camel's about right, though.

This is the best physic you can have. Will you try it now?"

This was an attack that the boy could not stand. He wanted to say No, with a gesture of disgust, but Nature would not let him then.

"I dunno," he said dubiously. "Did he make it?"

"Of course."

"But he looks like a common sailor; not a bit like a cook."

"He is a foremast-man, and takes his turn at everything, like the rest; but he does all the cooking just the same."

"But is he really clean?"

"He made all those bread-cakes you have eaten," was the reply.

"Oh," said Fitz quickly, for the soup smelt aggravatingly nice. "Would you mind tasting it?"

Poole raised the spoon to his lips, and replaced it.

"Splendid," he said. "You try."

He carefully placed the basin in his patient's lap, with the spoon ready to his hand, and drew back, watching the peculiar curl at the corners of the boy's lips as he slowly pa.s.sed the spoon round and then raised it to his mouth.

A few seconds later the spoon went round the basin again and was followed by an audible sip, on hearing which Poole went to the window, thrust out his head, and began to whistle, keeping up his tune as if he were playing orchestra to a banquet, while he watched the dart and splash of a fish from time to time about the surface, and the shadowy shapes of others deep down below the schooner's stern-post, clearly enough seen in the crystal sunlit water set a-ripple by the gentle gliding through it of the vessel's keel.

After waiting what he considered a sufficient time, Poole said loudly, without turning round--

"There's plenty of fish in sight."

But there was no reply, and he waited again until in due time he heard a sharp click as of metal against crockery which was followed by a deep sigh, and then the lad turned slowly, to see the mids.h.i.+pman leaning back in the berth with his hands behind his head, the empty basin and spoon resting in his lap.

Poole Reed did not say what he would have liked, neither was there any sound of triumph in his voice. He merely removed the empty vessel and asked a question--

"Was it decent?"

And Fitz forgot himself. For the moment all his irritability seemed gone, and the natural boy came to the surface.