Читать книгу The Captain from Connecticut онлайн

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Peabody was conscious of a feeling of disillusionment, or of disappointment--in either case, it was something which he was always prepared for.

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Peabody wiped his mouth with his napkin and looked down the table, the largest that could be rigged in the mess cabin. The afternoon sunlight was streaming in through the skylight, and the cabin was sweltering hot--there were trickles of sweat down his lean cheeks, while fat little Purser Styles beside him was mopping his face unashamedly.

"Damme, sir," said Styles, "but those beans were good. The weevils haven't got at 'em yet. Here, Washington, I'll have another cut o' that pork."

Only skeletons remained of the four scrawny hens which had been sacrificed for dinner, but there was plenty of fat meat left on the two legs of fresh pork which had been served. Everyone had eaten well, and before Washington brought in the dessert it was time for a toast. Peabody was uneasily conscious that it was time for a speech, too, but that he would not be able to give. The toast would have to suffice--he could remember by heart well enough the formula he had heard repeated in past years. He got to his feet, glass in hand, and conversation died away as all eyes turned to him.