It has gone eight bells, and as I feel a trifle peckish, I daresay you're pretty much the same." While saying this Captain Miles descended the poop-ladder, and, beckoning dad and I to follow him, ushered us into the cabin below, where we found a very appetising meal laid out.

It seemed just as if we had been expected and that preparations had been made for our entertainment.
Dad passed a remark about this, but the captain laughed it off.
"Oh, it's nothing," he said.

"Harry, my steward, thought he would make a spread, I suppose, because I told him I felt hungry just now.

It is only our ordinary fare, though; for, when we're in harbour like this now and have the chance of getting fresh grub, we always keep a good table.
At sea, after a spell, we've got to rough it on salt junk frequently." "Not like what we poor fellows had to put up with in the service," observed dad, shrugging his shoulders with a grimace.
"Ah, we in the mercantile marine know how to enjoy ourselves," said Captain Miles with a satisfactory chuckle.

"You naval chaps are something like what the niggers say of white folks that have come down in the world out here, and try to keep up appearances without means.
You have `poor greatness, with dry rations,' hey ?" "That's true enough," replied dad; and then we all set to work with our knives and forks, demolishing, in less than no time, a grilled fowl and some delicious fried flying-fish, with the accompaniment of roast buttered yams and fresh plantains.
I don't know when I ever had such a jolly tuck out.