It was Jim calling the watch at 7.20 a.m., so that they could get their breakfast before going on deck at eight bells. "Burgoo? Who said burgoo?" cried Red Bill, sitting up excitedly at the announcement of this luxury. "I've just seen Lung cooking it," declared Jim. "The steward says there's to be burgoo for breakfast from forty to forty." "Then we're in the Roaring Forties all right," observed Jack. "Did you see that ere chink a-cookin' of it, did you say, kid?" inquired old Ben Sluice. "Yes, I did," replied the boy. "Well, I'm glad I didn't, or I couldn't have ate it, for sure," returned the ex-miner with a grunt. Like many westerners, he considered the pig-tail tribe as "rank p'ison," and he never lost an opportunity of deriding the _Higgins'_ cook. "How's that ere boisterous party, the weather, a-conductin' himself this maunin'?" asked Broncho. "I'm hopin' he's got his fur some smoothed since last night, when he's shore more pesky than a croger[8] with the indigestion." "She's hummin' pretty strong yet," Jim replied; and then inquired softly, "How you feelin' this mornin', Jack?" "Fit enough to put the gloves on with Sullivan, and as hungry as fifty Siwash Indians," replied the latter gaily, vaulting out of his bunk. "Fur a bloke as wos as near drowned as you wos, h'I bloomin' well thinks you tyke the cyke," exclaimed the cockney. "W'y, my gills is still flappin' fur air an' me stomich gurglin' wi' salt water after that ere washin' around we gets squarin' 'er in las' night." "Be Jasus, ye're roight, me son o' London Town, an' I've been after dramin' I was a fish an' couldn't get into the wather. Shure, it were a crool drame after spendin' the blitherin' night sprainin' me nose with tryin' to get it out of the wet. Ah, the wather! I ain't after havin' no use for it onless it's a weak solution in a glass of ould Oirish," said Pat in disgust. "'Allo, Pat, 'old 'ard! I'm a bloomin' swot if you ain't given yer jibboom a bigger hoist," burst out the cockney with a note of concern in his voice. Pat's nose was very much what society papers call tip-tilted. "Arrah, now, with yer bamboozlin'," cried Pat. "Wot you sye, byes?" pursued the cockney. "Ain't 'e been an' cock-billed that yard of 'is?" "You shore has her p'intin' so as an angel with a spy-glass can look down your nostrils," remarked Bedrock Ben, solemnly, amidst laughter. "Fetch the grub along, there's a good chap," said Curly, whose duty it was, but who was vainly struggling to get a pair of wet rubbers on over damp socks, to Jim. "Right you are," said the boy cheerily, and he started off cautiously for the galley for two reasons--the one to avoid the succession of dollops which poured over the rail, the other to escape the vigilant eye of the mate. He found the industrious Lung busy burnishing up his pots and pans, and though several inches of water were washing over the floor of the galley, it was as clean as a new pin.