Amos put his hand over his mouth to stifle some sound that broke through in spite of him. Ned gave him a reproving glance. "Or else, me innards is ruint by that galley cook of ours." He sighed and nodded in reminiscent sorrow. "Ah, sweet Boozer, were you to sample but a spoonful of what us pore sailors must face week after week, and month after month, and us on the high seas--you bein' such a delikit cook, so to speak--your heart's blood would curdle on the instant, that it would, by my cap and buttons!" Tears of pity streamed down Becky Boozer's face, and pulling out a bandanna handkerchief from her apron pocket she blew her nose with a honk that would have blown a less sturdy man than Ned Cilley off his chair. [Illustration] "Deary me, the saints preserve and defend us!" she cried. "I must do all in my poor weak woman's power to tempt you as best I may. Draw up, lads, for here it comes!" she announced without ceremony, and the three watching her needed no second invitation. Then such a feast as was heaped upon their plates and crowded on the table. Steaming vegetable soup, roast pigeons, roasted ducks, several boiled fowl with wild rice, a cold beef pie, several kinds of cheese, tarts and pies, jams and preserves. A blissful silence fell over the cheerful room and Becky Boozer stood back to survey the two busy boys and engrossed silent man. Silent if one can call Ned Cilley's champing jaws, smacking lips, great sighs after a draught of ale, or loud appreciative belches a silent meal. When everyone had finished at last and they had pushed back their chairs and looked about them again with dozy smiles, Chris remembered Mr. Wicker's request. He rose, not without difficulty. "Mr. Wicker asked me to see him for a moment." He moved to the passageway. "That was a superb supper, Becky. I'm stuffed." Becky looked around genuinely surprised. "Why--a mere mouthful, a taste, a tidbit, was all any of you had. See--there's a pigeon or two left, and half a duck, and part of the beef pie--why, you do but peck at your food, all of you, like poor birds!" she insisted. Chris laughed. Ned Cilley, picking his teeth with his habitual ship's nail, was already falling asleep, and Amos, his head on one hand, propped himself up amid a jumble of empty plates. Peacefulness and content lay everywhere in the room, warm as the firelight and as pervasive. Chris turned. "Anyhow, thanks again. I'll be back," and he went along to knock at Mr. Wicker's door.