"I won't do
anything in a hurry, but, mark my words, if the parrot dies that cat
goes overboard."
Contrary to expectations, the bird was still alive when London was
reached, though the cook, who from his connection with the cabin had
suddenly reached a position of unusual importance, reported great loss
of strength and irritability of temper. It was still alive, but failing
fast on the day they were to put to sea again; and the fo'c'sle, in
preparation for the worst, stowed their pet away in the paint-locker,
and discussed the situation.
Their council was interrupted by the mysterious behaviour of the cook,
who, having gone out to lay in a stock of bread, suddenly broke in upon
them more in the manner of a member of a secret society than a humble
but useful unit of a ship's company.
"Where's the cap'n?" he asked in a hoarse whisper, as he took a seat on
the locker with the sack of bread between his knees.
"In the cabin," said Sam, regarding his antics with some disfavour.
"What's wrong, cookie?"
"What d' yer think I've got in here?" asked the cook, patting the bag.
The obvious reply to this question was, of course, bread; but as it was
known that the cook had departed specially to buy some, and that he
could hardly ask a question involving such a simple answer, nobody gave
it.
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