A large
turtle was obtained for twenty-five cents, and handed over to the
cook to be dealt with, particular instructions being given him as
to the apportionment of the meat.
At eight bells there was a gathering of the men in front of the
poop, and a summons for the captain. When he appeared, the usual
stereotyped invitation to "have a look at THAT, if you please,
sir," was uttered. The skipper was, I think, prepared for a
protest, for he began to bluster immediately. "Look here!" he
bawled, "I ain't goin' to 'ave any of your dam nonsense. You WANT
somethin' to growl about, you do." "Well, Cap'n George," said
one of the men, "you shorely don't think we k'n eat shells, do
yer?" Just then I caught sight of the kid's contents, and could
hardly restrain my indignation. For in a dirty heap, the sight
of which might have pleased an Esquimaux, but was certainly
enough to disgust any civilized man, lay the calipee, or under-
shell of the turtle, hacked into irregular blocks. It had been
simply boiled, and flung into the kid, an unclean, disgusting
heap of shell, with pieces of dirty flesh attached in ragged
lumps. But the skipper, red-faced and angry, answered, "W'y, yer
so-and-so ijits, that's wot the Lord Mayor of London gives about
a guinea a hounce for w'en 'e feeds lords n' dooks.
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