Tom Spink and Henry are told off
to the task, and the thorough scrubbing of Buckwheat is assured.
The mutineers are not starving. To-day they have been fishing for
albatrosses. A few minutes after they caught the first one its
carcase was flung overboard. Mr. Pike studied it through his sea-
glasses, and I heard him grit his teeth when he made certain that it
was not the mere feathers and skin but the entire carcass. They had
taken only its wing-bones to make into pipe-stems. The inference was
obvious: STARVING MEN WOULD NOT THROW MEAT AWAY IN SUCH FASHION.
But where do they get their food? It is a sea-mystery in itself,
although I might not so deem it were it not for Mr. Pike.
"I think, and think, till my brain is all frazzled out," he tells me;
"and yet I can't get a line on it. I know every inch of space on the
Elsinore, and know there isn't an ounce of grub anywhere for'ard, and
yet they eat! I've overhauled the lazarette. As near as I can make
it out, nothing is missing. Then where do they get it? That's what
I want to know.
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