quite authentic. It
neither belongs to the class of vessel or period with which I am
dealing, but there is something in it that is characteristic of the old
sea cook who was devoted to his ship and his employer. Lord Randolph
Churchill was travelling on a steamer owned by a well-known Line, and
had reason to complain of the cooking and the quality of the food, so
he wrote in the visitors' book that both were bad. The old chief cook
took it to heart; and several years after poor Lord Randolph had ceased
to live, as the old man himself lay dying, his family saw there was
something troubling his mind. They asked him if it was something in
connection with his work.

"Yes," said he, mournfully, "it is, and I want you to send for Mr
----," who was an old and trusted servant of the Company. The official
went to the cook's home, and before leaving him asked what it was that
made him unhappy.

"Well," replied the old fellow, "I have never got over what was said
about the food years ago, and I wanted to see you about it, so that you
might hear me say before I die: 'May the Lord forgive Lord Randolph
Churchill for saying the cooking and food of the ---- Line was bad!'
Now I have got it off my chest I can die happy." And before the
official left, the old man had passed away.

Amongst the numerous traditions which cling to the sailors of these
good old days of which Mr John Ruskin used to speak so reverently, was
one of a London baker, who was known to have amassed fabulous wealth in
manufacturing biscuits from ground bones and selling them for human
food to complaisant shipowners who were of kindred spirit to himself.
Hundreds of poor seamen who were obliged to eat this vile stuff called
bread, provided by their God-forsaken employers as per scale of one
pound per day per man, had their bodies saturated with disease. Nay,
hundreds of them were killed by its use, and those who survived its
poisonous effects had to thank the pure air of the sea and a good deal
of self-sacrifice on their own part by preferring to starve themselves
rather than eat it.

This system of villainy was openly carried on long after I first went
to sea, and although the London purveyor had passed to another place he
must have left behind him a set of imitators who acquired an equally
charming aptitude for murder by supplying vessels with deadly food of
one kind and another. The tradition went on to say that ultimately he
died, and having sold himself to