"You'll jolly well have to," declared Harborough grimly. "There's no room for idlers on this craft. Can you cook?" "Yes, sah, me berry good cook," assented the black, and immediately he broke into a loud roar of laughter until he had to hold his sides as the tears streamed down his face. The laugh was distinctly infectious. There was something so boisterously gusty in the merriment that every one of the _Titania's_ crew on deck began smiling in varying degrees of intensity. "What about your cooking?" inquired Harborough, whose face was puckered in a multitude of crinkles. "Me cook aboard de _Lucy M. Partington_, three-masted schooner from N'Orleans to Naples," explained the black. "Me cook berry well all de time. One day de fellah played a prank, an' put Epsom-salts in the sugar canister. I made Spotted Dick for de Ole Man--pardon, sah, de Captain, I mean--an' dere you are." Another tornado of laughter followed. "And what happened then?" prompted Harborough. "Ole Man kick me out at Gib.," replied the nigger soberly. "Big gum-boots, too," he added, with painful reminiscence. "Well, carry on in the galley," ordered the skipper of the _Titania_. "None of your Epsom-salt touches here, remember, or you'll find my boot heavier than the _Lucy M. Partington's_ Old Man's. What's your name?" "Pete, sah; Pete Johnson." Harborough waved dismissal. Pete, pulling his woolly forelock, pattered away towards the fore-hatch. "They didn't have a nigger on board the _Zug_, I suppose?" inquired Harborough. "No," replied Villiers. "This fellow seems quite above board." "He may be a blessing in disguise," commented the baronet. "I don't envy the fellows who volunteered for the galley when we get down the Red Sea, and they'll be jolly glad to get out of it." An hour later Villiers went below and inspected the galley. Pete had quickly made himself at home. Arrayed in white-canvas jumper and trousers he presented a decidedly better appearance than he had done in the ragged dungarees. He had not been lacking in energy, for the pots and pans were burnished brighter than they had been since they left the ship-chandler's establishment in far-off Southampton. He greeted Jack with one of his expansive grins. "Quite shipshape now, Massa Villers," he exclaimed. "You're making quite a fine show, Sambo," replied Villiers. The black's smile vanished and he pouted his lip. "I would hab you know, Massa Villers," he exclaimed, with studied dignity, "dat my name is Pete, not Sambo. Sambo Yankee niggah; me British born." "Right-o, Pete, I'll remember," replied Villiers; and the black resumed his customary smile. "I wonder how he got hold of my name," thought Jack.