"You were about to ask something," said he, with visible uneasiness and confusion. "I was about to ask who had mutilated the poor animal so cruelly." "How can I say? Some ruffian, no doubt. Come aft, and ask the captain about it." "Lord love you, marm," said the cook--a greasy black fellow, who seemed to be in a perpetual state of steam, grime, and perspiration; and no wonder, when he had his blazing coppers around him, and overhead a tropical sun that melted pitch out of the decks--"there ain't no cruelty in this whatsomdever." "What! no cruelty in mutilating the poor animal thus?" "It's natur's wicious, marm," replied the cook, with great earnestness. "'Tain't lucky to have a cat aboard o' ship, or a parson neither, for the matter o' that. We can't dock the parson; but we docks the cat, as you see." "Poor little pussy!" "Poor! be darned, marm! I shears off the ears for'ard, and docks the tail aft, leavin' on'y the starn post; and so a cook's knife alters their appearance and their wicious nature entirely." "What strange stuff is that you are cooking?" "Scouse, for the fork'stle, marm; have a taste?" replied the cook, offering a huge dirty ladle, filled with a queer mess, to Ethel's lovely lip. But she shrank back; so he poured down his capacious throat the scalding contents, which, in reality, was a savoury mess, composed of salt junk, chopped into small pieces, bruised biscuits, potatoes, suet and pepper, all stewed up together, and ready to be served up in the wooden kid for the ship's crew. "Shall we go aft, now?" said Hawkshaw, with irrepressible annoyance. "Yes, please," replied Ethel, hastening away, on finding herself the centre of what she deemed a curious, but which was in reality an impertinently admiring group. And, grasping the belaying pins to steady her steps, she hastened towards the quarter alone, for Hawkshaw remained behind, paralysed, and almost cursing her in his heart, on finding himself confronted by the bulky form and lowering front of Pedro Barradas. He saw that Ethel, alone and unattended, had reached a seat near the taffrail, and was now beside her father, Rose, Dr. Heriot, and some of the ship's officers; so he turned hastily away, seeking to get aft by passing between the foremast and the forehatch; but there he was encountered by Bill Badger, the raw-boned, red-skinned, and ruffianly-looking Yankee, who said, while touching his hat in insolent mockery: "Avast! I beg yer pardon, Capting 'Awkshaw, but haul yer wind. I calculate there's a yellow cove as wants to speak with yer uncommon pertic'lar--one o' the not-to-be-done squadron." Turning, with rage and desperation in his heart, Hawkshaw affected a calm exterior, and said, suavely, to Barradas: "I believe you wish to speak with me, my good fellow?"