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 lassie 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 ship 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 ship to make a
stew in?"
"What do I want with a ship?" said Andy, looking puzzled. "Why, to
cook!"
"Cook a ship?"
"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 ship. 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 ship, 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!" ejaculated 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 gods 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 gods and goddesses. 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."
"Ship, laddie--ship. If ye ca' it like that naebody will think ye mean
a mutton that goes on four feet."
"Well, pronounce 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?"
"Oh yes, though I never tasted it. Andy makes one for the lads whenever
he gets a chance."
"Do they eat it?"
"Oh yes, and laugh at him all the time. I dare say it's very good, but
I never felt disposed to try. But he's a good fellow, is Andy, and as
fine a sailor as ever stepped. You'll get to like him by and by."
"Get to like him?" said Fitz, pulling himself up short and stiff.
"Humph! I dunno so much about that, young fellow. Look here, how long
do you expect it's going to be before I am set aboard some ship?"
"Ah, that's more than anybody can say," replied Poole quietly.