And I was a little scared at first, for
there was sawdust enough to soak up every drop of my blood, if they had
pistolled me. Mrs. Twemlow, I beg you not to be alarmed. My wife has
such nerves that I often forget that all ladies are not like her. Now
don't contradict me, Mrs. Stubbard. Well, sir, I went to the end of this
cockpit--if you like to call it so--and got into the starboard berth,
and shouted for a ration of what I had smelled outside. And although
it was far from being equal to its smell--as the character is of
everything--you might have thought it uncommon good, if you had never
tasted Mrs. Stubbard's cooking, after she had been to the butcher
herself. Very well. I don't care for kickshaws, even if I could afford
them, which has never yet been my destiny. So I called for another
ration of hot sheep--beg your pardon, ladies, what I mean is mutton--and
half a dozen more of baked potatoes; and they reminded me of being at
home so much that I called for a pint of best pine-apple rum and a
brace of lemons, to know where I was--to remind me that I wasn't where I
couldn't get them."
"Oh, Adam!" cried Mrs. Stubbard, "what will you say next? Not on
weekdays, of course, but nearly every Sunday--and the samples of his
powder in his pocket, Mr. Twemlow!"
"Jemima, you are spoiling my story altogether. Well, you must
understand that this room was low, scarcely higher than the cabin of a
fore-and-after, with no skylights to it, or wind-sail, or port-hole that
would open.
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