’em on ter cook now,” said Noddy, “one bell has jus gone and ther old man wants the gang ter git their scoff by five er clock.” At this juncture an aged colored man entered the galley. He wore a white cook’s cap on his head, on which he had scrawled, with ink, Pompey James, Chief Cook of the Polly Ann. Noddy introduced him with a flourish. “Pompey, old top,” he exclaimed, “this is der new deputy assistant bottle washer.” “Ah’m glad ter meet yer,” said Pompey ceremoniously, “ah hopes yo all is mo’ circumambulatory in yo’ ways dan dis yar raid haided boy. Gollyumptions, he shuh do make dis chile’s life bud’ensome at times.” Noddy winked and grinned at Raynor. Then he turned suddenly and looked at Pompey with what appeared to be consternation. “Gee! what’s dat you got in yer wool, Jupe?” he exclaimed, for the cook had taken his white cap off so as not to get it dirty during his culinary operations. “In mah hair, Noddy?” asked Pompey. “Yes, sir, in your hair. It’s big and white and round.” Pompey investigated his wooly poll, scratching it carefully all over. Of course he found nothing. “Guess yo’ all am tryin’ ter fool dis chile,” he said, with a good-natured grin, which showed a double set of white teeth. “No, I ain’t. On the level, look!” The Bowery boy reached for the negro’s head and drew from it an egg. It was a simple sleight of hand trick. But Pompey stared in amazement at the egg as it lay in Noddy’s palm. “Land ob Goshen! How dat get dere?” he cried in great astonishment. “Blessed if I know. Maybe you’re turning into an incubator.” “Gollyumption!” gasped the negro, “I don’ want ter be no inky beater, whateber dat may be.” “Well, take this ege and make a pudding with it, see,” said the red-headed Bowery youth, holding out the egg in his closed fist. But when he opened his fingers the egg was gone. Instead there lay a bright dime on Noddy’s palm. “Gee whaitakers. Don’t dat beat de Dutch,” exclaimed Noddy, in apparent astonishment, “queer things seem to be going on here all the time.”
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