Before Leonard could reach any sort of decision, Gaskin rang his gong
for dinner. The boy arose and walked buoyantly towards the mess hall. He
was hungry, too. Ever since he had cut rations, he had been eating the
same fare as the men.
The tropical night was falling as the men joyously entered to a
full-fledged, satisfying, if secondhand, meal. They came in laughing,
joking boisterously, wondering about the schooner.
When the men had strung around the long table, Mike Hogan arose and the
men became quiet as if at some preconcerted signal. The Irishman gave a
slightly embarrassed bob toward Leonard and began in an extra rich
brogue:
"Misther Madden, sir----"
Leonard glanced up in surprise. "What's worrying you, Mike?"
"Th' bhoys, sir, have been thinkin' as how we would loike to ixpress our
appreciation av what ye've done for us, sir, in a little spache,
something loike a little spache av wilcome, sir, an' asked me to do it,
if ye don't moind."
"Go ahead," nodded Madden, "but don't expect much of a response from me.
I'm no speaker and----"
"Go on, Mike!" "Go to it, Mike!" "Take a sip of water, Mike, like a
reg'lar one, and cut loose."
With this encouragement, the Celt moistened his dry lips, thrust out his
chest, and after a momentary fumble, stuck three fingers in his shirt
front.
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