It was morning when he awoke, though he could not tell the hour; for
the only light that reached his prison was filtered through the hatch
above, which somebody had kindly tilted open. The sounds that woke
him were those of feet moving to and fro in the captain's cabin
overhead, and, far forward in the ship, the clatter of boots as the
soldiers turned out. He looked about him and made two discoveries.
In the first place, his two drunken companions had vanished, or had
been removed; and secondly, their place was taken by a loaf and a tin
pannikin.
He reached out a hand for these, and began without hesitation the
first meal in his life of which the green volumes were to keep no
record. With less hunger he might have found it nauseous; for the
bread was incredibly mouldy and had been gnawed all round the crust
by rats, while the liquor in the pannikin was a mixture of fiery rum
and unclean water. The first gulp fetched the tears; but, after
sputtering a bit, he managed to swallow a good half of it. As he
breakfasted he heard a deal of muffled shouting above, and then a
distant clanking sound that was unfamiliar. The _Good Intent_ was
weighing anchor.
These noises, however, did not trouble Tristram, who was minded by
this time to bear his fortune with hardihood.
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