None of us spoke a word for a minute; we were clean on our beam ends. Then Pratt looked at the passenger and roared out: “Well, sir, you’ve raised h— with your pudding, I must say! Like to have burned us all up into the bargain. That’s what comes of setting brandy on fire. I thought when you spoke of it, it was the d—dest nonsense to burn up a lot of good liquor that might better be drunk.” Warriner had found his voice by this time. “Captain Thomas Pratt, you forget yourself. I am not accustomed to being addressed in that fashion, and you will please remember that I am a passenger on this craft—this miserable apology for a schooner—and did not come here to be sworn at!” The old boy was on his mettle, and Pratt saw it. “No offense meant, Mr. Warriner, but I insist that your having that brandy set on fire was a rash proceeding.” “Brandy! That was not brandy. Do you suppose I never saw a plum-pudding before? If that had been the brandy I gave that imp of Satan” (pointing to the cook) “it would never have blazed up like that. And what foul odor did we smell when he poured the stuff around the pudding? What odor do we smell now? Kerosene, or I’m no judge.” “Kerosene!” echoed the Cap’n. I began to think the passenger knew what he was talking about. All of us smelled oil, and we cast our eyes on Cornwallis. He looked as innocent as a lamb. “Gents, dat ain’t possible,” said he, his black face shining like polished ebony. “We will see about that,” answered Warriner. “Let’s taste the sauce—I’ll warrant it’s full of kerosene too.” He took some in a spoon and smelled of it before putting his tongue to it. “Curious,” he muttered, “there is no odor of oil or brandy either.” Then the old chap tasted it. “This is extraordinary! There’s nothing to this sauce—it has no body. There is positively not a drop of brandy in it; nor of kerosene, for that matter.” “Dat am bery strange, Mass’ Warmer. De brandy must ’a’ done ’vaporated.” “Evaporated down your throat, you black villain! Captain Pratt, I consider this a flagrant outrage. I furnished a quantity of good brandy for this pudding, not a drop of which has been used. What has become of it?” “Dat Monday or some ob de han’s might ’a’ stole it when I wahn’t lookin’,” suggested the cook. Prince, the bo’s’un, was standing outside near the door, and had evidently heard part of the confab. He now called out: “Ef you ’lows me, Cap’n, I reckons I kin find out de truf in dis argument.” “Come in, Prince,” answered Pratt. “If you can get any truth out of Cornwallis you’re smarter than I think you are.” The cook looked indignant—not so much at being called a liar as having the bo’s’un admitted,—for he and Prince were not on good terms, and he considered the bo’s’un’s interference a piece of pure impudence. Prince entered, cap in hand. I’m tolerable tall myself, but he was a good four inches above me, and a right good looking darkey into the bargain. He walked right up to the cook.