The Tale of Little Pig Robinson - Beatrix Potter [11]
The cat itself was crossed in love. Its morose and gloomy outlook upon life was partly the result of separation from the owl. That sweet hen-bird, a snowy owl of Lapland, had sailed upon a northern whaler, bound for Greenland. Whereas the “Pound of Candles” was heading for the tropic seas.
Therefore the cat neglected its duties, and was upon the worst of terms with the cook. Instead of blacking boots and valeting the Captain, it spent days and nights in the rigging, serenading the moon. Between times it came down on deck, and remonstrated with Robinson.
It never told him plainly why he ought not to eat so much; but it referred frequently to a mysterious date (which Robinson could never remember) — the date of Captain Butcher’s birthday, which he celebrated annually by an extra good dinner.
“That’s what they are saving up apples for. The onions are done — sprouted with the heat. I heard Captain Barnabas tell the cook that onions were of no consequence as long as there were apples for sauce.”
Robinson paid no attention. In fact, he and the cat were both on the side of the ship, watching a shoal of silvery fishes. The ship was completely becalmed. The cook strolled across the deck to see what the cat was looking at and exclaimed joyfully at sight of fresh fish. Presently half the crew were fishing. They baited their lines with bits of scarlet wool and bits of biscuit; and the boatswain had a successful catch on a line baited with a shiny button.
The worst of button fishing was that so many fish dropped off while being hauled on deck. Consequently Captain Butcher allowed the crew to launch the jolly boat, which was let down from some iron contraption called “the davits” on to the glassy surface of the sea. Five sailors got into the boat; the cat jumped in also. They fished for hours. There was not a breath of wind.
In the absence of the cat, Robinson fell asleep peacefully upon the warm deck. Later he was disturbed by the voices of the mate and the cook, who had not gone fishing. The former was saying:
“I don’t fancy loin of pork with sunstroke, Cooky. Stir him up; or else throw a piece of sail cloth over him. I was bred on a farm myself. Pigs should never be let sleep in a hot sun.”
“As why?” inquired the cook.
“Sunstroke,” replied the mate. “Likewise it scorches the skin; makes it peely like; spoils the look of the crackling.”
At this point a rather heavy dirty piece of sail cloth was flung over Robinson, who struggled and kicked with sudden grunts.
“Did he hear you, Matey?” asked the cook in a lower voice.
“Don’t know; don’t matter; he can’t get off the ship,” replied the mate, lighting his pipe.
“Might upset his appetite; he’s feeding beautiful,” said the cook.
Presently the voice of Captain Barnabas Butcher was heard. He had come up on deck after a siesta below in his cabin.
“Proceed to the crow’s nest on the main mast; observe the horizon through a telescope according to latitude and longitude. We ought to be amongst the archipelago by the chart and compass,” said the voice of Captain Butcher.
It reached the ears of Robinson through the sail cloth in muffled tones, but peremptory; although it was not so received by the mate, who occasionally contradicted the Captain when no one else was listening.
“My corns are very painful,” said the mate.
“Send the cat up,” ordered Captain Barnabas briefly.
“The cat is out in the boat fishing.”
“Fetch him in then,” said Captain Barnabas, losing his temper. “He has not blacked my boots for a fortnight.” He went below; that is, down a stepladder into his cabin, where he proceeded to work out the latitude and longitude again, in search of the archipelago.
“It’s to be hoped that he mends his temper before next Thursday, or he won’t enjoy roast pork!” said the mate to the cook.
They strolled to the other end of the deck to see what fish had been caught; the boat was coming back.
As the weather