“Oh, yes, you have.  Everybody ought to have the same chance.  You let that fellow—­”

The rest I lost.  The person having been repulsed successfully, the steward came down.  I can’t say he looked flushed—­he was a mulatto—­but he looked flustered.  After putting the dishes on the table he remained by the sideboard with that lackadaisical air of indifference he used to assume when he had done something too clever by half and was afraid of getting into a scrape over it.  The contemptuous expression of Mr. Burns’s face as he looked from him to me was really extraordinary.  I couldn’t imagine what new bee had stung the mate now.

The Captain being silent, nobody else cared to speak, as is the way in ships.  And I was saying nothing simply because I had been made dumb by the splendour of the entertainment.  I had expected the usual sea-breakfast, whereas I beheld spread before us a veritable feast of shore provisions:  eggs, sausages, butter which plainly did not come from a Danish tin, cutlets, and even a dish of potatoes.  It was three weeks since I had seen a real, live potato.  I contemplated them with interest, and Mr. Jacobus disclosed himself as a man of human, homely sympathies, and something of a thought-reader.

“Try them, Captain,” he encouraged me in a friendly undertone.  “They are excellent.”

“They look that,” I admitted.  “Grown on the island, I suppose.”

“Oh, no, imported.  Those grown here would be more expensive.”

I was grieved at the ineptitude of the conversation.  Were these the topics for a prominent and wealthy merchant to discuss?  I thought the simplicity with which he made himself at home rather attractive; but what is one to talk about to a man who comes on one suddenly, after sixty-one days at sea, out of a totally unknown little town in an island one has never seen before?  What were (besides sugar) the interests of that crumb of the earth, its gossip, its topics of conversation?  To draw him on business at once would have been almost indecent—­or even worse:  impolitic.  All I could do at the moment was to keep on in the old groove.

“Are the provisions generally dear here?” I asked, fretting inwardly at my inanity.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he answered placidly, with that appearance of saving his breath his restrained manner of speaking suggested.

He would not be more explicit, yet he did not evade the subject.  Eyeing the table in a spirit of complete abstemiousness (he wouldn’t let me help him to any eatables) he went into details of supply.  The beef was for the most part imported from Madagascar; mutton of course was rare and somewhat expensive, but good goat’s flesh—­

“Are these goat’s cutlets?” I exclaimed hastily, pointing at one of the dishes.

Posed sentimentally by the sideboard, the steward gave a start.

“Lor’, no, sir!  It’s real mutton!”