"How can um cook w'en dere's nuffin' to cook, an' no place to cook in ?" "Belay that grumblin' o' yourn, darkey," cried old Moggridge, who had been poking about amongst a heap of the debris of ropes and broken spars and gear that were piled in a heap between the windlass bitts and the top of the topgallant forecastle.

"I do believe your blessed old caboose hasn't been washed overboard arter all! Here it is, only on its beam-ends like the ship was an hour ago; but I daresay all your pots and pans are all right inside." "Golly, bosun, does you mean dat ?" exclaimed Cuffee, going up quickly to where Moggridge was standing, inspecting the mass of heterogeneous things that had fetched up in the corner, consisting of a portion of one of the anchor-stocks, the men's clothes and traps washed out from their bunks, mess-tins, and all sorts of stray dunnage.

"You tell me de galley am right an' safe, for true, hey ?" "Why, there it is, you ugly varmint! Can't you see it for yourself ?" retorted the old seaman, rather nettled at having his word doubted.
"Lor' a mussy, dere it am!" ejaculated Cuffee, highly delighted when his own eyes confirmed the fact.

"Golly, Bosun, we can cook sumfin' now!" "I don't know how you're going to manage that as it stands," said Moggridge sarcastically.

"Strikes me you'd better see about rigging it up properly first!" "I'se spec' you'll help, Massa Bosun," hinted the darky cook in an obsequious way; "you clebber man, Massa Moggridge, an' knows how to bowse tings up." "Oh, yes; I don't want any of your blarney now, Cuffee.