As for Jacko himself, he seemed to thrive on short allowance, and never exhibited any unseemly haste or anxiety at meal-times. It was observed, however, that he kept an uncommonly sharp eye on all that passed around him, as if he felt that his circumstances were at that time peculiar and worthy of being noted. In particular he knew to a nicety what happened to each atom of food, from the time of its distribution among the men to the moment of its disappearance within their hungry jaws, and if any poor fellow chanced to lay his morsel down and neglect it for the tenth part of an instant, it vanished like a shot, and immediately thereafter Jacko was observed to present an unusually serene and innocent aspect, and to become suddenly afflicted, with a swelling in the pouch under his cheek.
One day the men received a lesson in carefulness which they did not soon forget.
Breakfast had been served out, and Phil Briant was about to finish his last mouthful of biscuit—he had not had many mouthfuls to try his masticating powers, poor fellow—when he paused suddenly, and gazing at the cherished morsel addressed it thus—
“Shure, it’s a purty bit, ye are! Av there wos only wan or two more o’ yer family here, it’s meself as ’ud like to be made beknown to them. I’ll not ait ye yit. I’ll look at ye for a little.”
In pursuance of this luxurious plan, Briant laid the morsel of biscuit on the thwart of the boat before him, and, taking out his pipe, began to fill it leisurely, keeping his eye all the time on the last bite. Just then Mr Markham, who pulled the bow oar, called out—
“I say, Briant, hand me my tobacco-pouch, it’s beside you on the th’ort, close under the gun’le.”
“Is it?” said Briant, stretching out his hand to the place indicated, but keeping his eye fixed all the time on the piece of biscuit. “Ah, here it is; ketch it.”
For one instant Briant looked at the second mate in order to throw the pouch with precision. That instant was sufficient for the exercise of Jacko’s dishonest propensities. The pouch was yet in its passage through the air when a tremendous roar from Tim Rokens apprised the unhappy Irishman of his misfortune. He did not require to be told to “look out!” although more than one voice gave him that piece of advice. An intuitive perception of irreparable loss flashed across his soul, and, with the speed of light, his eye was again on the thwart before him—but not on the morsel of biscuit. At that same instant Jacko sat down beside Ailie with his usual serene aspect and swelled cheek!
“Och, ye bottle imp!” yelled the bereaved one, “don’t I know ye?” and seizing a tin pannikin, in his wrath, he threw it at the small monkey’s head with a force that would, had it been well directed, have smashed that small head effectually.
Jacko made a quick and graceful nod, and the pannikin, just missing Ailie, went over the side into the sea, where it sank and was lost for ever, to the regret of all, for they could ill afford to lose it.
“Ye’ve got it, ye have, but ye shan’t ait it,” growled Briant through his teeth, as he sprang over the seat towards the monkey.
Jacko bounded like a piece of indiarubber on to Gurney’s head; next moment he was clinging to the edge of the mainsail, and the next he was comfortably seated on the top of the mast, where he proceeded calmly and leisurely to “ait” the biscuit in the face of its exasperated and rightful owner.
“Oh,—Briant!” exclaimed Ailie, who was half frightened, half amused at the sudden convulsion caused by her favourite’s bad conduct, “don’t be vexed; see, here is a little bit of my biscuit; I don’t want it—really I don’t.”
Briant, who stood aghast and overwhelmed by his loss and by the consummate impudence of the small monkey, felt rebuked by this offer. Bursting into a loud laugh, he said, as he resumed his seat and the filling of his pipe—
“Sure I’d rather ait me own hat, Miss Ailie, an’ it’s be no means a good wan—without sarce, too, not even a blot o’ mustard—than take the morsel out o’ yer purty mouth. I wos more nor half jokin’, dear, an’ I ax yer parding for puttin’ ye in sich a fright.”
“Expensive jokin’,” growled Tarquin, “if ye throw a pannikin overboard every time you take to it.”
“Kape your tongue quiet,” said Briant, reddening, for he felt somewhat humbled at having given way to his anger so easily, and was nettled at the remark, coming as it did, in a sneering spirit, from a man for whom he had no particular liking.
“Never mind, Briant,” interposed the captain quickly, with a good-humoured laugh; “I feel for you, lad. Had it been myself I fear I should have been even more exasperated. I would not sell a crumb of my portion just now for a guinea.”
“Neither would I,” added the doctor, “for a thousand guineas.”
“I’ll tell ye wot it is, lads,” remarked Tim Rokens; “I wish I only had a crumb to sell.”
“Now, Rokens, don’t be greedy,” cried Gurney.
“Greedy!” echoed Tim.
“Ay, greedy; has any o’ you lads got a dickshunairy to lend him? Come, Jim Scroggles, you can tell him what it means—you’ve been to school, I believe, hain’t you?”
Rokens shook his head gravely.
“No, lad, I’m not greedy, but I’m ready for wittles. I won’t go fur to deny that. Now, let me ax ye a question. Wot—supposin’ ye had the chance—would ye give, at this good min’it, for a biled leg o’ mutton?”
“With or without capers-sauce?” inquired Gurney.
“W’ichever you please.”
“Och! we wouldn’t need capers-sarse,” interposed Briant; “av we only had the mutton, I’d cut enough o’ capers meself to do for the sarce, I would.”
“It matters little what you’d give,” cried Glynn, “for we can’t get it at any price just now. Don’t you think, captain, that we might have our breakfast to-night? It would save time in the morning, you know.”
There was a general laugh at this proposal, yet there was a strong feeling in the minds of some that if it were consistent with their rules to have breakfast served out then and there, they would gladly have consented to go without it next morning.
Thus, with laugh and jest, and good-natured repartee, did these men bear the pangs of hunger for many days. They were often silent during long intervals, and sometimes they became talkative and sprightly, but it was observed that, whether they conversed earnestly or jestingly, their converse ran, for the most part, on eating and drinking, and in their uneasy slumbers, during the intervals between the hours of work and watching, they almost invariably dreamed of food.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.
Progress of the Long Voyage—Story-Telling and Journalising.
Many weeks passed away, but the Maid of the Isle still held on her course over the boundless ocean.
Day after day came and went, the sun rose in the east morning after morning, ran its appointed course, and sank, night after night, on the western horizon, but little else occurred to vary the monotony of that long, long voyage. When the sun rose, its bright rays leapt from the bosom of the ocean; when it set, the same bosom of the great deep received its descending beams. No land, no sail appeared to the anxious gazers in that little boat, which seemed to move across, yet never to reach the boundaries of that mighty circle of water and sky, in the midst of which they lay enchained, as if by some wicked enchanter’s spell.
Breezes