When he got
into the room, the first object that struck his eyes at one end of it,
was Zack, with his hat on, vigorously engaged in freshening up the
dusty carpet with a damp mop; and Mat, at the other, presiding over the
frying-pan, with his coat off, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his
shoulders, a glass of steaming hot grog on the chimney-piece above him,
and a long pewter toasting-fork in his hand.
"Here's the honored guest of the evening arrived before I've swabbed
down the decks," cried Zack, jogging his friend in the ribs with the
long handle of the mop.
"How are you, to-night?" said Mat, with familiar ease, not moving from
the frying-pan, but getting his right hand free to offer to Mr. Blyth
by taking the pewter toasting-fork between his teeth. "Sit down
anywhere you like; and just holler through the crack in the floor,
under the bearskins there, if you want anything out of the Bocker-shop,
below."--("He means Tobacco when he says Bocker," interposed Zack,
parenthetically.) "Can you set your teeth in a baked tater or two?"
continued Mat, tapping a small Dutch oven before the fire with his
toasting-fork. "We've got you a lot of fizzin' hot liver and bacon to
ease down the taters with what you call a relish.
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