“See yah, Mas’r Tom—­and chil’n all,” said Solomon, at last.  “Ise gwine to pose dat we all go an tend to sometin ob de fust portance.  Hyah’s Mas’r Tom habn’t had notin to eat more’n a mont; an hyah’s de res ob de blubbed breddern ob de Bee see double what been a fastin since dey riz at free clock dis shinin and spicious morn.  Dis yah’s great an shinin casium, an should be honnad by great and strorny stivities.  Now, dar ain’t no stivity dat can begin to hole a can’l to a good dinna, or suppa, or sometin in de eatin line.  So Ise gwine to pose to honna de cobbery ob de Probable Son by a rale ole-fashioned, stunnin breakfuss.  Don’t be fraid dar’ll be any ficiency hyah.  I got tings aboard dat I ben a savin for dis spicious an lightful cobbery.  Ben no eatin in dis vessel ebber sence de loss chile took his parter an drifted off.  Couldn’t get no pusson to tetch nuffin.  Got ’em all now; an so, blubbed breddern, let’s sem’l once more, an ole Solomon’ll now ficiate in de pressive pacity ob Gran Pandledrum.  An I pose dat we rect a tent on de sho oh dis yah island, and hab de banket come off in fust chop style.”

“The island!” cried Tom, in horror.  “What! the island?  Breakfast on the island?  What a horrible proposal!  Look here, captain.  Can’t we get away from this?”

“Get away from this?” repeated the captain, in mild surprise.

“Yes,” said Tom.  “You see, the fact is, when a fellow’s gone through what I have, he isn’t over fond of the place where he’s had that to go through.  And so this island is a horrible place to me, and I can’t feel comfortable till I get away out of sight of it.  Breakfast!  Why, the very thought of eating is abominable as long as that island is in sight.”

“Wal, railly, now,” said Captain Corbet, “I shouldn’t wonder if thar was a good deal in that, though I didn’t think of it afore.  Course it’s natral you shouldn’t be over fond of sech, when you’ve had sech an oncommon tough time.  An now, bein’ as thar’s no uthly occasion for the Antelope to be a lingerin’ round this here isle of the ocean, I muve that we histe anchor an resume our vyge.  It’s nigh onto a fortnight sence we fust started for Petticoat Jack, and sence that time we’ve had rare and strikin vycissitoods.  It may jest happen that some on ye may be tired of the briny deep, an may wish no more to see the billers bound and scatter their foamin spray; some on ye likewise may be out o’ sperrits about the fog.  In sech a case, all I got to say is, that this here schooner’ll be very happy to land you at the nighest port, Scott’s Bay, frincense, from which you may work your way by land to your desired haven.  Sorry would I be to part with ye, specially in this here moment of jy; but ef ye’ve got tired of the Antelope, tain’t no more’n’s natral.  Wal, now,—­what d’ye say—­shall we go up to Scott’s Bay, or will ye contenoo on to Petticoat Jack, an accomplitch the riginal vyge as per charter party?”