"Oh yes, thank you, cook," was the genial reply. "Capital soup." "Ay," said the Camel seriously, "and ye'll just take the same dose every morning at twa bells till you feel as if you can eat salt-junk like a mon. Ah weel, ah weel! They make a fine flather about doctors and their stuff, but ye mind me there isn't another as can do a sick mon sae much good as the cook." "Hear that, Mr Burnett?" "Oh yes, I hear," said Fitz, smiling, with a look of content upon his features to which they had for many days been strangers. "I am not going to say a word the noo aboot the skipper, and what he's done. He's a grand mon for a hole or a cut or a bit broken leg. He's got bottles and poothers of a' kinds, but when the bit place is mended it's the cook that has to do the rigging up. You joost stick to Andy Cawmell, and he'll make a man of you in no time." "Thank you, cook," said Fitz, smiling. "And ye'll be reet. But if ye'd no' mind, ye'll joost kindly say `Andy mon,' or `laddie' when you speak to me. It seems more friendly than `cook.' Ye see, cook seems to belang more to a sonsy lassie than a mon. Just let it be `Andy' noo." "All right; I'll mind," said the middy, who looked amused. "Ah, it's a gran' thing, cooking, and stands first of all, for it keeps every one alive and strong. They talk a deal about French cooks and their kickshaws, and about English cooks, and I'm no saying but that some English cooks are very decent bodies; but when you come to Irish, Ould Oireland, as they ca' it, there's only one thing that ever came from there, and that's Irish stew." "What about taters, Andy?" "Why, isna that part of it? Who ever heard of an Irish stew without taters? That's Irish taters, my lad, but if you want a real good Irish stew you must ha'e it made of Scotch mutton and Scotch potatoes, same as we've got on board now. And joost you bide a wee, laddies, till we get across the ocean, and if there's a ship to be found there, I'll just show you the truth of what I mean. Do ye mind me, laddie?" continued the cook, fixing Fitz tightly with his red eyes. "Mind you? Yes," said Fitz; "but what do you want with a ship to make a stew in?" "What do I want with a ship?" said Andy, looking puzzled. "Why, to cook!" "Cook a ship?" "Ah, sure. Won't a bit of mutton be guid after so much salt and tinned beef?" "Oh, a sheep!" cried Fitz. "Ay, I said so: a ship. Your leg of mutton, or a shouther are all very good in their way, but a neck makes the best Irish stew. But bide a wee till we do get hold of a ship, and I'll make you a dish such as will make you say you'll never look at an Irish stew again." "Oh!" cried Poole. "He means one of those--" "Nay, nay, nay! Let me tell him, laddie. He never ken'd such a thing on board a man-o'-war. D'ye ken the national dish, Mr Burnett, sir?" "Of course," said Fitz; "the roast beef of old England."