Tom Jerrold let me into the secret. It seems that the apparent suicidal
tendencies of the pigs who jumped into the sea in that mysterious way
was caused by the fore-topgallant stu'n'sail halliards being dexterously
fastened round them by a couple of the hands previously in sling
fashion; and when the poor brutes were jerked overboard by the aid of
these, they were allowed to tow under the keel of the ship until their
squeals were hushed for ever, and then drawn inboard again and cut up in
the forecastle. When they were carved properly into pork, the men
thought them none the less delicious because they had come to their
death by water instead of by the ordinary butcher's knife; and, as I had
the opportunity of testing this opinion in a savoury little pig's fry
which Ching Wang presented me with the same evening for supper, I cannot
but acknowledge that I agreed thoroughly with the judgment of the hands
in the matter of "spiflicated pork," as Tom Jerrold called it.
"Dick, Dick, what do you think of it all?" said I, chirping to the
starling, who was whistling wide awake when I turned out next morning at
"eight bells" after dreaming of the poor murdered pigs, on my way to the
galley to get some hot coffee. "What do you think of it all--eh, Dick?"
"Tip us your flipper!" hoarsely croaked the bright-eyed little bird with
the voice of Tim Rooney, only seeming to be a very long way off. He
also seemed to have the nose of Captain Gillespie, which we all said his
long beak strongly resembled. "Tip us your flipper!"
That was all I could get out of him; but I thought that, really, a wrong
had been righted, and the captain's marmalade imposition on us and on
the hands forward been amply avenged.
Poor "Old Jock's" live stock of late appeared to be in a very bad way;
for, not only was he deprived of his favourite pigs so unfortunately,
but since we had begun to run more to southward after leaving the Line,
his supply of eggs from the collection of hens he had in the coops on
the poop daily dwindled down to nothing, although they had previously
been good layers.
Somehow or other the fowls seemed to have the pip, while the three
cocks, one a splendid silver and gold fellow, who lorded over the harem
of Dorkings and Brahmas, all looked torn and bedraggled as if they had
given way to dissipated habits. Besides this, they took to crowing
defiance against each other at the most unearthly hours, whereas, prior
to this, their time for chanticleering had been as regular as clock-
work, in the afternoon and in the "middle watch" generally.
Captain Gillespie couldn't make it out at all.
One fine morning, however, coming on the deck through the cuddy doors
below the break of the poop instead of mounting up to the latter by the
companion way as usual, before the time for washing down, he surprised a
number of the men assembled about the cook's galley.
There was Ching Wang in the centre of the group, holding Captain
Gillespie's pet gold and silver crower and urging it on to fight one of
the other cocks, which the carpenter was officiating for as "bottle
holder" in the most scientific way, he apparently being no novice at the
cruel sport.
The captain did not see what they were about at first; but the
delinquent was soon pointed out by Pedro Carvalho, between whom and the
Chinaman the most deadly enmity existed, and who had indeed already
informed the captain of the cook's treatment of his fowls, the
Portuguese steward doing this with much alacrity, as if proud of being
the informer.
"Look dere, sah!" cried Pedro. "Dere is dat Ching Wang now, sah! Oh,
yase, dere he was, sah, as I say, killin' your cockles magnificent--oh!"
The captain's appearance at once broke up the ring, the carpenter
dropping his bird incontinently and fleeing into the forecastle with the
other men; but, the Chinaman never moved a muscle of his countenance
when he turned his round innocent-looking, vacuous, Mongolian face and
caught sight of "Old Jock's" infuriated look bent on him.
He did not even let go the gold and silver cock, whose plumage had been
sadly tarnished by a previous tournament with the Dorking which the
carpenter had squired. No, he held his ground there before the galley
with a courage one could not but admire, the only sign he gave of an
inward emotion being the occasional twinkling of his little beady
Chinese eyes.
"Wh-wha-what the dicken's d-d-d'ye mean by this?" stuttered and
stammered Captain Gillespie, his passion almost stopping his speech.
"Wh-wh-what d'ye mean, I say?"
"Me only hab piecee cocky-fightee," answered Ching Wang as calmly as
possible. "Me chin chin you, cap'en."
Captain Gillespie fairly boiled over with rage.
"This beats cock-fighting!" he cried, stating the case inadvertently in
his exclamation. "I thought it was those confounded cats we have aboard
the ship that ill-treated the poor fowls and prevented them from laying
me any eggs, till Pedro here told me it was you, though I didn't believe
it. I wouldn't have believed it now if I hadn't seen you at it. By
jingo, it's shameful!"
Ching Wang, however, paid no attention to this violent tirade, only
salaaming humbly and looking the very picture of meekness and
contrition.
But his eyes, as I could see, being close by, having been attracted by
the row as most of us were, had altered their expression, now flashing
with a peculiar glare as the Chinaman, with a more abject bow than
before to the captain, asked him deferentially:
"And dis one manee you tellee Ching Wang cocky-fightee one piecee--hi?"
"Yes, Pedro told me," replied Captain Gillespie, sniffing and snorting
out the words. "And a good job too; for, else, I wouldn't have known of
your goings on!"
Ching Wang's yellow face almost turned white with anger.
"Hi, blackee-brownee manee," he yelled, springing upon Pedro like a
tiger. "You takee dat number one, chop chop!"