That was a sad day on which we began our preparations.
Endicott, the cook, was the only man who submitted without murmuring. As a negro, who cares little about the future, shallow and frivolous like all his race, he resigned himself easily to his fate; and this is, perhaps, true philosophy. Besides, when it came to the question of cooking, it mattered very little to him whether it was here or there, so long as his stoves were set up somewhere.
So he said to his friend the mate, with his broad negro smile,—
"Luckily my kitchen did not go off with the schooner, and you shall see, Hurliguerly, if I do not make up dishes just as good as on board the Halbrane, so long as provisions don't grow scarce, of course—"
"Well! they will not be wanting for some time to come," replied the boatswain. "We need not fear hunger, but cold, such cold as would reduce you to an icicle the minute you cease to warm your feet—cold that makes your skin crack and your skull split! Even if we had some hundreds of tons of coal—But, all things being well calculated, there is only just what will do to boil this large kettle."
"And that is sacred," cried Endicott; "touching is forbidden! The kitchen before all."
"And that is the reason why it never strikes you to pity yourself, you old nigger! You can always make sure of keeping your feet warm at your oven!"
"What would you have, boatswain? You are a first-rate cook, or you are not. When you are, you take advantage of it; but I will remember to keep you a little place before my stove."
