“You’ve got it all off by heart, I see,” said Ruby.

“True, boy, but it’s not so easy to get it all off yer stomach sometimes.  What with confinement and want of exercise we was troubled with indigestion at first, but we’re used to it now, and I have acquired quite a fancy for cooking.  No doubt you’ll hear Forsyth and Joe say that I’ve half-pisoned them four or five times, but that’s all envy; besides, a feller can’t learn a trade without doin’ a little damage to somebody or something at first.  Did you ever taste blackbird pie?”

“No,” replied Ruby, “never.”

“Then you shall taste one to-day, for we caught fifty birds last week.”

“Caught fifty birds?”

“Ay, but I’ll tell ye about it some other time.  Be off just now, and get as much exercise out o’ the rock as ye can before breakfast.”

The smith resumed his work as he said this, and Ruby descended.

He found the sea still roaring over the rock, but the rails were so far uncovered that he could venture on them, yet he had to keep a sharp lookout, for, whenever a larger breaker than usual struck the rock, the gush of foaming water that flew over it was so great that a spurt or two would sometimes break up between the iron bars, and any one of these spurts would have sufficed to give him a thorough wetting.

In a short time, however, the sea went back and left the rails free.  Soon after that Ruby was joined by Forsyth and Dumsby, who had come down for their morning promenade.

They had to walk in single file while taking exercise, as the tramway was not wide enough for two, and the rock, even when fully uncovered, did not afford sufficient level space for comfortable walking, although at low water (as the reader already knows) it afforded fully a hundred yards of scrambling ground, if not more.

They had not walked more than a few minutes when they were joined by Jamie Dove, who announced breakfast, and proceeded to take two or three turns by way of cooling himself.  Thereafter the party returned to the kitchen, where they sat down to as good a meal as any reasonable man could desire.

There was cold boiled beef—­the remains of yesterday’s dinner—­and a bit of broiled cod, a native of the Bell Rock, caught from the doorway at high water the day before.  There was tea also, and toast—­buttered toast, hot out of the oven.

Dove was peculiarly good at what may be styled toast-cooking.  Indeed, all the lightkeepers were equally good.  The bread was cut an inch thick, and butter was laid on as plasterers spread plaster with a trowel.  There was no scraping off a bit here to put it on there; no digging out pieces from little caverns in the bread with the point of the knife; no repetition of the work to spread it thinner, and, above all, no omitting of corners or edges;—­no, the smallest conceivable fly could not have found the minutest atom of dry footing on a Bell Rock slice of toast, from its centre to its circumference.  Dove had a liberal heart, and he laid on the butter with a liberal hand.  Fair play and no favour was his motto, quarter-inch thick was his gauge, railway speed his practice.  The consequence was that the toast floated, as it were, down the throats of the men, and compensated to some extent for the want of milk in the tea.