"The Nubian beat him frightfully."
sailor struck the bell on the forecastle, and howled mournfully, "Um decta hi!", which told the officer on the bridge chat he was keeping a good lookout. The sea muttered, whispering uncannily to the iron plates of the steamer that disturbed it.
Morning. On the forward deck was
an open cookhouse where the pilgrims
prepared their food. There was no
squabbling. Grim men cared for the
afflicted as if trained all their lives to that
end—helping them with their food, finding
them soft wood for their teeth
cleaning.
Bugs—Ben Mohamet—loudly expressing sympathy for the deaf mute waited on him, anticipating his needs.
Small stores, or extras, could be bought from the ship's steward; and about five the next afternoon Bugs walked aft and interviewed that gentleman. He spoke to the steward in rough Hindostani, and said that he had "found" an English sovereign. He was not accustomed to using such money—how much was it worth in rupees? Because he wished to trade it for coffee and sweet things—which the steward sold.
The steward, an elderly Scot, grinned. He spoke excellent Hindostani, with a Gaelic accent!
"Ye found this bit of money?" he asked, grinning. The steward knew well the sort of pilgrim that travelled on that old steamer.
Bugs grinned in return.
