Part 9 (1/2)
”Not fair.”
”You didn't tell me you could play as well as that.”
”Of course not. I wasn't going to brag about my playing. Let's have another game. I think we're about equal.”
”No, I'm tired now. I say,” added Fitz, after a pause, as he lay watching the draughtsmen being dropped slowly back into the bag, ”don't take any notice of what I said. I don't want you to think me c.o.c.ky and bragging. My head worries me, and it makes me feel hot and out of temper, and ready to find fault with everything. We'll have another game some day if I'm kept here a prisoner. Perhaps I shall be able to play better then.”
”To be sure you will. But it doesn't matter which side wins. It is only meant for a game.”
CHAPTER EIGHT.
A BASIN OF SOUP.
Fitz had just finished his semi-apology when the fastening of the door clicked softly; it was pushed, and a peculiar-looking, s.h.a.ggy head was thrust in. The hair was of a rusty sandy colour, a shade lighter than the deeply-tanned face, while a perpetual grin parted the owner's lips as if he were proud to show his teeth, though, truth to tell, there was nothing to be proud of unless it was their bad shape and size. But the most striking features were the eyes, which somehow or another possessed a fiery reddish tinge, and added a certain fierceness to a physiognomy which would otherwise have been very weak.
Fitz started at the apparition.
”The impertinence!” he muttered. ”Here, I say,” he shouted now, ”who are you?”
”Who am I, laddie?” came in a harsh voice. ”Ye ken I'm the cook.”
”And what do you want here, sir? Laddie, indeed! Why didn't you knock?”
”Knock!” said the man, staring, as he came right in.
”I didna come to knock: just to give you the word that it's all hot and ready now.”
”What's hot and ready?”
”The few broth I've got for you. Ye didna want to be taking doctor's wash now, but good, strong meaty stuff to build up your flesh and bones.”
Fitz stared.
”Look here, you, Poole Reed; what does this man mean by coming into my cabin like this? Is he mad?”
”No, no,” said Poole, laughing. ”It's all right; I'd forgotten. He asked me if he hadn't better bring you something every day now for a bit of lunch. It's all right, Andy. Mr Burnett's quite ready. Go and fetch it.”
The man nodded, grinned, in no wise hurt by his reception, and backed out again.
”Rum-looking fellow, isn't he, Mr Burnett?”
”Disgusting-looking person for a cook. Can anybody eat what he prepares?”
”We do,” said Poole quietly. ”Oh, he keeps his galley beautifully clean, does Andy Campbell--Cawmell, he calls himself, and the lads always call him the Camel. And he works quite as hard.”
He had only just spoken when the man returned on the tips of his bare toes, looking, for all the world, like the ordinary able seaman from a man-of-war. He bore no tray, napkin, and little tureen, but just an ordinary s.h.i.+p's basin in one hand, a spoon in the other, and carefully balanced himself as he entered the cabin, swaying himself with the basin so that a drop should not go over the side.
”There y'are, me puir laddie. Ye'll just soop that up before I come back for the bowl. There's pepper and salt in, and just a wee bit onion to make it taste. All made out of good beef, and joost the pheesic to make you strong.”
”Give it to me, Andy,” cried Poole, and the man placed it in his hands, smiled and nodded at the prisoner, and then backed out with his knees very much bent.