their kickshaws, and about English cooks, and I'm no saying but that
some English cooks are very decent bodies; but when you come to Irish,
Ould Oireland, as they ca' it, there's only one thing that ever came
from there, and that's Irish stew."

"What about taters, Andy?"

"Why, isna that part of it? Who ever heard of an Irish stew without
taters? That's Irish taters, my lad, but if you want a real good Irish
stew you must ha'e it made of Scotch mutton and Scotch potatoes, same as
we've got on board now. And joost you bide a wee, laddies, till we get
across the ocean, and if there's a ship to be found there, I'll just
show you the truth of what I mean. Do ye mind me, laddie?" continued
the cook, fixing Fitz tightly with his red eyes.

"Mind you? Yes," said Fitz; "but what do you want with a ship to make a
stew in?"

"What do I want with a ship?" said Andy, looking puzzled. "Why, to
cook!"

"Cook a ship?"

"Ah, sure. Won't a bit of mutton be guid after so much salt and tinned
beef?"

"Oh, a sheep!" cried Fitz.

"Ay, I said so: a ship. Your leg of mutton, or a shouther are all very
good in their way, but a neck makes the best Irish stew. But bide a wee
till we do get hold of a ship, and I'll make you a dish such as will
make you say you'll never look at an Irish stew again."

"Oh!" cried Poole. "He means one of those--"

"Nay, nay, nay! Let me tell him, laddie. He never ken'd such a thing
on board a man-o'-war. D'ye ken the national dish, Mr Burnett, sir?"

"Of course," said Fitz; "the roast beef of old England."

"Pugh!" ejaculated the Scot. "Ye don't know. Then I'll tell ye. Joost
gi'e me the liver and a few ither wee bit innards, some oatmeal, pepper,
salt, an onion, and the bahg, and I'll make you a dish that ye'll say
will be as good as the heathen deities lived on."

"Do you know what that was?" said Fitz.

"Ay, laddie; it was a kind of broth, or brose--ambrose, they called it,
but I dinna believe a word of it. Ambrose, they ca'ed it! But how
could they get hahm or brose up in the clouds? A'm thinking that the
heathen gods didn't eat at all, but sippit and suppit the stuff they got
from the top of a mountain somewhere out in those pairts--I've read it
all, laddies, in an auld book called _Pantheon_--mixed with dew,
mountain-dew."

"Nonsense!" cried Fitz, breaking into a pleasant laugh.

"Nay, it's no nonsense, laddie. I've got it all down, prented in a
book. Ambrosia, the