All this gives rise to endless disputes, debates, and altercations.
Sometimes, with his mess-cloth--a square of painted canvas--set out on deck between the guns, garnished with pots, and pans, and _kids_, you see the mess-cook seated on a matchtub at its head, his trowser legs rolled up and arms bared, presiding over the convivial party.
"Now, men, you can't have any butter to-day.

I'm saving it up for to-morrow.

You don't know the value of butter, men.

You, Jim, take your hoof off the cloth! Devil take me, if some of you chaps haven't no more manners than so many swines! Quick, men, quick; bear a hand, and '_scoff_' (eat) away .-- I've got my to-morrow's _duff_ to make yet, and some of you fellows keep _scoffing_ as if I had nothing to do but sit still here on this here tub here, and look on.

There, there, men, you've all had enough: so sail away out of this, and let me clear up the wreck." In this strain would one of the periodical cooks of mess No.