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Page 18
"What do you mean?"
John Want shook his head, and looked at Crayford with a dreary
smile.
"I don't think I shall have the honor of making much more bone
soup for you, sir. Do you think yourself you'll last long, sir? I
don't, saving your presence. I think about another week or ten
days will do for us all. Never mind! _I_ don't grumble."
He poured the bones into the mortar, and began to pound
them--under protest. At the same moment a sailor appeared,
entering from the inner hut.
"A message from Captain Ebsworth, sir."
"Well?"
"The captain is worse than ever with his freezing pains, sir. He
wants to see you immediately."
"I will go at once. Rouse the doctor."
Answering in those terms, Crayford returned to the inner hut,
followed by the sailor. John Want shook his head again, and
smiled more drearily than ever.
"Rouse the doctor?" he repeated. "Suppose the doctor should be
frozen? He hadn't a ha'porth of warmth in him last night, and his
voice sounded like a whisper in a speaking-trumpet. Will the
bones do now? Yes, the bones will do now. Into the saucepan with
you," cried John Want, suiting the action to the word, "and
flavor the hot water if you can! When I remember that I was once
an apprentice at a pastry-cook's--when I think of the gallons of
turtle-soup that this hand has stirred up in a jolly hot
kitchen--and when I find myself mixing bones and hot water for
soup, and turning into ice as fast as I can; if I wasn't of a
cheerful disposition I should feel inclined to grumble. John
Want! John Want! whatever had you done with your natural senses
when you made up your mind to go to sea?"
A new voice hailed the cook, speaking from one of the bed-places
in the side of the hut. It was the voice of Francis Aldersley.
"Who's that croaking over the fire?"
"Croaking?" repeated John Want, with the air of a man who
considered himself the object of a gratuitous insult. "Croaking?
You don't find your own voice at all altered for the worse--do
you, Mr. Frank? I don't give _him_," John proceeded, speaking
confidentially to himself, "more than six hours to last. He's one
of your grumblers."
"What are you doing there?" asked Frank.
"I'm making bone soup, sir, and wondering why I ever went to
sea."
"Well, and why did you go to sea?"
"I'm not certain, Mr. Frank. Sometimes I think it was natural
perversity; sometimes I think it was false pride at getting over
sea-sickness; sometimes I think it was reading 'Robinson Crusoe,'
and books warning of me _not_ to go to sea."
Frank laughed. "You're an odd fellow. What do you mean by false
pride at getting over sea-sickness? Did you get over sea-sickness
in some new way?"
John Want's dismal face brightened in spite of himself. Frank had
recalled to the cook's memory one of the noteworthy passages in
the cook's life.
"That's it, sir!" he said. "If ever a man cured sea-sickness in a
new way yet, I am that man--I got over it, Mr. Frank, by dint of
hard eating. I was a passenger on board a packet-boat, sir, when
first I saw blue water. A nasty lopp of a sea came on at
dinner-time, and I began to feel queer the moment the soup was
put on the table. 'Sick?' says the captain. 'Rather, sir,' says
I. 'Will you try my cure?' says the captain. 'Certainly, sir,'
says I. 'Is your heart in your mouth yet?' says the captain. 'Not
quite, sir,' says I. 'Mock-turtle soup?' says the captain, and
helps me. I swallow a couple of spoonfuls, and turn as white as a
sheet. The captain cocks his eye at me. 'Go on deck, sir,' says
he; 'get rid of the soup, and then come back to the cabin.' I got
rid of the soup, and came back to the cabin. 'Cod's
head-and-shoulders,' says the captain, and helps me. 'I can't
stand it, sir,' says I. 'You must,' says the captain, 'because
it's the cure.' I crammed down a mouthful, and turned paler than
ever. 'Go on deck,' says the captain. 'Get rid of the cod's head,
and come back to the cabin.' Off I go, and back I come. 'Boiled
leg of mutton and trimmings,' says the captain, and helps me. 'No
fat, sir,' says I. 'Fat's the cure,' says the captain, and makes
me eat it. 'Lean's the cure,' says the captain, and makes me eat
it. 'Steady?' says the captain. 'Sick,' says I. 'Go on deck,'
says the captain; 'get rid of the boiled leg of mutton and
trimmings and come back to the cabin.' Off I go, staggering--back
I come, more dead than alive. 'Deviled kidneys,' says the
captain. I shut my eyes, and got 'em down. 'Cure's beginning,'
says the captain. 'Mutton-chop and pickles.' I shut my eyes, and
got _them_ down. 'Broiled ham and cayenne pepper,' says the
captain. 'Glass of stout and cranberry tart. Want to go on deck
again?' 'No, sir,' says I. 'Cure's done,' says the captain.
'Never you give in to your stomach, and your stomach will end in
giving in to you.'"
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