Thence we turned our attention to the table, which
stood spread, as if for a meal, with stout ship's
crockery and the remains of food--a pot of marmalade,
dregs of coffee in the mugs, unrecognisable remains of
food, bread, some toast, and a tin of condensed milk.
The table-cloth, originally of a red colour, was
stained a dark brown at the captain's end, apparently
with coffee; at the other end it had been folded back,
and a pen and ink-pot stood on the bare table. Stools
were here and there about the table, irregularly
placed, as though the meal had been finished and the
men smoking and chatting; and one of the stools lay on
the floor, broken.
"See! they were writing up the log," said Nares,
pointing to the ink-bottle. "Caught napping, as usual.
I wonder if there ever was a captain yet that lost a
ship with his log-book up to date? He generally has
about a month to fill up on a clean break, like Charles
Dickens and his serial novels.--What a regular
limejuicer spread!" he added contemptuously.
"Marmalade--and toast for the old man! Nasty slovenly
pigs!"
There was something in this criticism of the absent
that jarred upon my feelings.
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