"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 ship'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. Poole stood stirring the broth in the basin slowly round and round, and spreading a peculiar vulgar odour which at first filled the invalid with annoyance; but as it pervaded the place it somehow began to have a decided effect upon the boy's olfactory nerves and excited within him a strange yearning which drove away every token of disgust. "It's too hot to give you yet," said Poole quietly. "You must wait a few minutes." Fitz's first idea had been that he would not condescend to touch what he was ready to dub "a mess." It looked objectionable, being of a strange colour and the surface dotted with yellowish spots of molten fat, while mingled with them were strange streaky pieces of divided onion. But animal food had for many days been a stranger to the sick lad's lips-- and then there was the smell which rapidly became to the boy's nostrils a most fascinating perfume. So that it was in a softened tone that he spoke next, as he watched the slow passage round and round of the big metal spoon. "It doesn't look nice," he said. "No. Ship's soup never does," replied Poole, "but the proof of the pudding is in the eating, you know. The Camel's about right, though. This is the best physic you can have. Will you try it now?" This was an attack that the boy could not stand. He wanted to say No, with a gesture of disgust, but Nature would not let him then. "I dunno," he said dubiously. "Did he make it?" "Of course." "But he looks like a common sailor; not a bit like a cook."