152 On the trail of vanishing birds 



man's hands on his apron and glaring at the sink, where several 

 bulky pots were sloshing around in greasy-looking water. He 

 seemed thoroughly aggrieved when I asked, rather pointedly, 

 about supper. "Supper?" he said, as if he had never heard of such 

 a thing in his life. "Why, supper's been gone mor'n a 'alf 'our 

 aga-o." And then, just in case I might be entertaining any further 

 ideas on the subject, he added, with a scornful snort, "Everything's 

 et up!" Since our box of groceries was packed away with the rest 

 of the freight, we climbed into our bunks supperless, deciding 

 that the old hulk had been well named after all. 



At ten the next morning we anchored off Hopetown in a steady 

 downpour of rain. The captain made his home here and so here 

 we remained until late afternoon, a slight hitch in the schedule 

 that had not been mentioned at the shipping office. Breakfast had 

 come and gone, and eventually lunch. By dint of careful planning 

 and considerable maneuvering, we managed to find seats at the 

 first table. The tea was both hot and strong, but we should have 

 stopped with that. The remainder of both meals consisted of a 

 bowl of water in which some kind of fish had been boiled. After 

 examining the meager bones that reposed at the bottom, and to 

 which a few strips of dark meat still clung, we suspected that they 

 had been members of the ubiquitous jack family. At lunch a few 

 potatoes were added, halved and boiled without removing their 

 jackets. From their peculiar flavor it was all too apparent that 

 they had been rescued from a surplus Florida crop that had been 

 immersed in kerosene, as a means of removing them from a glutted 

 market. Kerosene has an unmistakable, lingering, and most un- 

 pleasant taste! We swore that on our next voyage aboard this un- 

 mentionable craft we would stuff our pockets with something that 

 was at least palatable. 



It was just getting dark when we were at length put ashore at 

 Marsh Harbour, where we were to meet Rodney Roberts and 

 his sloop, the Ramona R. This was on a Wednesday evening, the 

 twenty-seventh of June. On inquiry we learned that, not unex- 

 pectedly, Rodney was off along the coast somewhere, no one was 

 quite certain exactly where, but probably at a small island where 

 he had a "farm." We found an empty room at Rodney, Jr.'s, and 



