The cook stood by the galley¹ stove, swelling² with conscious dignity, as of a man whose position is unassailable—above criticism. "Now then, cook!" I cried, "where's that duff?" For all answer he seized his "tormentors"—a sort of miniature pitchfork—and began jabbing them down into the seething³ copper⁴. "Look out, cook!" I said, in terror, "you'll bust⁵ the duff-bag, won't you?" No answer deigned⁶ he, but presently, with a mighty⁷ heave of both hands, he produced a square grey mass of something unlike anything edible⁸ that ever I had seen. This he dumped into the kid without a word, and waved his hand to bid me begone. Too much amazed to speak, I bore the ugly thing into the fo'lk'sle, setting it down in the midst of my expectant watch-mates, and silently retired⁹ to my corner in hungry anticipation¹⁰ of some fun presently. Joe approached the kid, knife and plate in hand, but on seeing the contents, drew back with a start and an exclamation¹¹ of "What the —— is that?" "Duff, the cook calls it," I murmured softly. "Well, I'll be —— if ever I see or smelt¹² anything like it in all my life," said he; "but p'raps it eats better'n it looks, so here goes." So saying, he attacked it with his knife, but only succeeded in removing some

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