I used to think the cook had an icehouse, and dropt ice into his coffee.
But what was more curious still, was the different quality and taste of
it on different mornings. Sometimes it tasted fishy, as if it was a
decoction of Dutch herrings; and then it would taste very salty, as if
some old horse, or sea-beef, had been boiled in it; and then again it
would taste a sort of cheesy, as if the captain had sent his
cheese-parings forward to make our coffee of; and yet another time it
would have such a very bad flavor, that I was almost ready to think some
old stocking-heels had been boiled in it. What under heaven it was made
of, that it had so many different bad flavors, always remained a
mystery; for when at work at his vocation, our old cook used to keep
himself close shut-up in his caboose, a little cook-house, and never
told any of his secrets.

Though a very serious character, as I shall hereafter show, he was for
all that, and perhaps for that identical reason, a very suspicious
looking sort of a cook, that I don't believe would ever succeed in
getting the cooking at Delmonico's in New York. It was well for him that
he was a black cook, for I have no doubt his color kept us from seeing
his dirty face! I never saw him wash but once, and that was at one of
his own soup pots one dark night when he thought no one saw him. What
induced him to be washing his face then, I never could find out; but I
suppose he must have suddenly waked up, after dreaming about some real
estate on his cheeks. As for his coffee, notwithstanding the
disagreeableness of its flavor, I always used to have a strange
curiosity every morning, to see what new taste it was going to have; and
though, sure enough, I never missed making a new discovery, and adding
another taste to my palate, I never found that there was any change in
the badness of the beverage, which always seemed the same in that
respect as before.