than ordinary steerage food. After the first taste Smith put it by, grumbling. Leonard, who was hungry, consumed about half of his.
Beef stew and boiled white fish formed the menu. Perhaps there is nothing quite so slippery and disheartening as boiled white fish grown luke warm or cold. The navvies ate ravenously enough, but Hogan and Deschaillon were not so wolfish.
Mike speared a bit on his fork and regarded it sadly. “This fish reminds me uv a fun'ril,” he observed, “an' yonder lad looks to be chief mourner,” he nodded toward Farnol Greer.
“He ees not mourning over the feesh,” declared Deschaillon gayly. “He ees struck on heemself, and found his affection ees misplaced.”
Madden laughed. The spirits of the Celt and the Gaul seemed to improve as their fare grew worse.
“Oh, av course a frog-atin' Frinchman loike you, Dashalong, would think any kind av fish a reg'lar feast.”
Deschaillon leaned over to inspect his portion. “Now eet does very well—to wax zee mustache, Mike.” He twirled his own.
