Chapter II: Part 2

The two cabs drove up almost at the same moment while they were below, and Mrs. Bunnett’s cabman had no sooner staggered on to the jetty with her luggage than Mrs. Fillson’s arrived with hers. The two ladies, who were entire strangers, stood regarding each other curiously as they looked down at the bare deck of the _Foam_.

“George!” cried Mrs. Fillson, who was a fine woman, raising her voice almost to a scream in the effort to make herself heard above the winch of a neighbouring steamer.

It was unfortunate perhaps that both officers of the schooner bore the same highly-respectable Christian name.

“_George!_” cried Mrs. Bunnett, glancing indignantly at the other lady.

“_Ge-orge!_” cried Mrs. Fillson, returning her looks with interest.

“Hussey,” said Mrs. Bunnett under her breath, but not very much under.

“George!”

There was no response.

“_George!_” cried both ladies together.

Still no response, and they made a louder effort.

There was yet another George on board, in the fo’c’sle, and, in response to pushes from curious friends below, he came up, and regarded the fair duettists open-mouthed.

“What d’yer want?” he said, at length sheepishly.

“Will you tell Captain Bunnett that his wife, Mrs. Bunnett, is here?” said that lady, a thin, little woman with bright black eyes.

“Yes, mum,” said the seaman, and was hurrying off when Mrs. Fillson called him back.

“Will you tell Mr. Fillson that his wife, Mrs. Fillson, is up here?” she said politely.

“All right, mum,” said the other, and went be-low to communicate the pleasing tidings. Both husbands came up on deck hastily, and a glance served to show them how their wives stood.

“How do you do, Cap’n Bunnett,” said Mrs. Fillson, with a fascinating smile.

“Good-morning, marm,” said the skipper, trying to avoid his wife’s eyes; “that’s my wife, Mrs. Bunnett.”

“Good-morning, ma’am,” said Mrs. Fillson, adjusting the new bonnet with the tips of her fingers.

“Good-morning to you,” said Mrs. Bunnett in a cold voice, but patronising. “You have come to bring your husband some of his things, I suppose?”

“She’s coming with us,” said the skipper, in a hurry to have it over. “Wait half a moment, and I’ll help you down.”

He got up on to the side and helped them both to the deck, and, with a great attempt at cheery conversation, led the way below, where, in the midst of an impressive silence, he explained that the ladies would have to share the state-room between them.

“That’s the only way out of it,” said the mate, after waiting in vain for them to say something.

“It’s a fairish size when you come to look at it,” said the skipper, putting his head on one side to see whether the bunk looked larger that way.

“Pack three in there at a pinch,” said the mate hardily.

Still the ladies said nothing, but there was a storm-signal hoisted in Mrs. Bunnett’s cheek, which boded no good to her husband. There was room only for one trunk in the state-room, and by prompt generalship Mrs. Fillson got hers in first. Having seen it safe she went up on deck for a look round.

“George,” said Mrs. Bunnett fiercely, as soon as they were alone.

“Yes, my dear,” said her husband.

“Pack that woman off home,” said Mrs. Bunnett sharply.

“I couldn’t do that,” said the skipper firmly. “It’s your own fault; you should have said you was coming.”

“Oh, I know you didn’t want me to come,” said Mrs. Bunnett, the roses on her bonnet trembling. “The mate can think of a little pleasure for _his_ wife, but I can stay at home and do your mending and keep the house clean. Oh, I know; don’t tell me.”

“Well, it’s too late to alter it,” said her husband. “I must get up above now; you’d better come too.”

Mrs. Bunnett followed him on deck, and, getting as far from the mate’s wife as possible, watched with a superior air of part ownership the movements of the seamen as they got under way. A favorable westerly breeze was blowing, and the canvas once set she stood by her husband as he pointed out the various objects of interest on the banks of the river.

They were still in the thick of the traffic at dinner time, so that the skipper was able, to his secret relief, to send the mate below to do the honours of the table. He came up from it pale and scared, and, catching the skipper’s eye, hunched his shoulders significantly.

“No words?” inquired the latter anxiously, in a half-whisper.

“Not exactly words,” replied the mate. “What you might call snacks.”

“I know,” said the other with a groan.

“If you don’t now,” said the mate, “you will at tea time. I’m not going to sit down there with them again alone. You needn’t think it. If you was to ask me what I’ve been eating I couldn’t tell you.”

He moved off a bit as his table companions came up on deck, and the master of the _Foam_ deciding to take the bull by the horns, called both of them to him, and pointed out the beauties of the various passing craft. In the midst of his dis-course his wife moved off, leaving the unhappy man conversing alone with Mrs. Fillson, her face containing an expression such as is seen in the prints of the very best of martyrs as she watched them.

At tea time the men sat in misery, Mrs. Bunnett passed Mrs. Fillson her tea without looking at her, an example which Mrs. Fillson followed in handing her the cut bread and butter. When she took the plate back it was empty, and Mrs. Bunnett, convulsed with rage, was picking the slices out of her lap.

“Oh, I _am_ sorry,” said Mrs. Fillson.

“You’re not, ma’am,” said Mrs. Bunnett fiercely. “You did it a purpose.”

“There, there!” said both men feebly.

“Of course my husband’ll sit quite calm and see me insulted,” said Mrs. Bunnett, rising angrily from her seat.

“And my husband’ll sit still drinking tea while I’m given the lie,” said Mrs. Fillson, bending an indignant look upon the mate.

“If you think I’m going to share the state-room with that woman, George, you’re mistaken,” said Mrs. Bunnett in a terrible voice. “I’d sooner sleep on a doorstep.”

“And I’d sooner sleep on the scraper,” said Mrs. Fillson, regarding her foe’s scanty proportions.

“Very well, me an’ the mate’ll sleep there,” said the skipper wearily. “You can have the mate’s bunk and Mrs. Fillson can have the locker. You don’t mind, George?”

“Oh, George don’t mind,” said Mrs. Bunnett mimickingly; “anything’ll do for George. If you’d got the spirit of a man, you wouldn’t let me be insulted like this.”

“And if you’d got the spirit of a man,” said Mrs. Fillson, turning on her husband, “you wouldn’t let them talk to me like this. You never stick up for me.”

She flounced up on deck where Mrs. Bunnett, after a vain attempt to finish her tea, shortly followed her. The two men continued their meal for some time in silence.

“We’ll have to ’ave a quarrel just to oblige them, George,” said the skipper at length, as he put down his cup. “Nothing else’ll satisfy ’em.”

“It couldn’t be done,” said the mate, reaching over and clapping him on the back.

“Just pretend, I mean,” said the other.

“It couldn’t be done proper,” said the mate; “they’d see through it. We’ve sailed together five years now, an’ never ’ad what I could call a really nasty word.”

“Well, if you can think o’ anything,” said the skipper, “say so. This sort o’ thing is worrying.”

“See how we get on at breakfast,” said the mate, as he lit his pipe. “If that’s as bad as this, we’ll have a bit of a row to please ’em.”

Breakfast next morning was, if anything, worse, each lady directly inciting her lord to acts of open hostility. In this they were unsuccessful, but in the course of the morning the husbands arranged matters to their own satisfaction, and at the next meal the storm broke with violence.

“I don’t wish to complain or hurt anybody’s feelings,” said the skipper, after a side-wink at the mate, “but if you could eat your wittles with a little less noise, George, I’d take it as a favour.”

“Would you?” said the mate, as his wife stiffened suddenly in her seat. “Oh!”

Both belligerents, eyeing each other ferociously, tried hard to think of further insults.

“Like a pig,” continued the skipper grumblingly.

The mate hesitated so long for a crushing rejoinder that his wife lost all patience and rose to her feet crimson with wrath.

“How dare you talk to my husband like that?” she demanded fiercely. “George, come up on deck this instant!”

“I don’t mind what he says,” said the mate, who had only just begun his dinner.

“You come away at once,” said his wife, pushing his plate from him.

The mate got up with a sigh, and, meeting the look of horror-stricken commiseration in his captain’s eye, returned it with one of impotent rage.

“Use a larger knife, cap’n,” he said savagely, “You’ll swallow that little ’un one of these days.”

The skipper, with the weapon in question gripped in his fist, turned round and stared at him in petrified amazement.

“If I wasn’t the cap’n o’ this ship, George,” he said huskily, “an’ bound to set a good example to the men, I’d whop you for them words.”

“It’s all for your good, Captain Bunnett,” said Mrs. Fillson mincingly. “There was a poor old workhouse man I used to give a penny to some times, who would eat with his knife, and he choked himself with it.”

“Ay, he did that, and he hadn’t got a mouth half the size o’ yours,” said the mate warningly.

“Cap’n or no cap’n, crew or no crew,” said the skipper in a suffocating voice, “I can’t stand this. Come up on deck, George, and repeat them words.”

“Before the mate could accept the invitation, he was dragged back by his wife, while at the same time Mrs. Bunnett, with a frantic scream, threw her arms round her husband’s neck, and dared him to move.

“You wait till I get you ashore, my lad,” said the skipper threateningly.

“I’ll have to bring the ship home after I’ve done with you,” retorted the mate as he passed up on deck with his wife.

During the afternoon the couples exchanged not a word, though the two husbands exchanged glances of fiery import, and later on, their spouses being below, gradually drew near to each other. The mate, however, had been thinking, and as they came together met his foe with a pleasant smile.

“Bravo, old man,” he said heartily.

“What d’yer mean?” demanded the skipper in gruff astonishment.

“I mean the way you pretended to row me,” said the mate. “Splendid you did it. I tried to back you up, but lor! I wasn’t in it with you.”

“What, d’yer mean to say you didn’t mean what you said?” inquired the other.

“Why, o’ course,” said the mate with an appearance of great surprise. “You didn’t, did you?”

“No,” said the skipper, swallowing something in his throat. “No, o’ course not. But you did it well too, George. Uncommon well, you did.”

“Not half so well as you did,” said the mate. “Well, I s’pose we’ve got to keep it up now.”

“I s’pose so,” said the skipper; “but we mustn’t keep it up on the same things, George. Swallerin’ knives an’ that sort o’ thing, I mean.”

“No, no,” said the mate hastily.

“An’ if you could get your missus to go home by train from Summercove, George, we might have a little peace and quietness,” added the other.

“She’d never forgive me if I asked her,” said the mate: “you’ll have to order it, cap’n.”

“I won’t do that, George,” said the skipper firmly. “I’d never treat a lady like that aboard my ship. I ’ope I know ’ow to behave myself if I do eat with my knife.”

“Stow that,” said the mate, reddening. “We’ll wait an’ see what turns up,” he added hopefully.

For the next three days nothing fresh transpired, and the bickering between the couples, assumed on the part of the men and virulent on the part of their wives, went from bad to worse.

It was evident that the ladies preferred it to any other amusement life on ship-board could offer, and, after a combined burst of hysterics on their part, in which the whole ship’s company took a strong interest, the husbands met to discuss heroic remedies.

“It’s getting worse and worse,” said the skipper ruefully. “We’ll be the laughing stock o’ the crew even afore they’re done with us. There’s another day afore we reach Summercove, there’s five or six days there, an’ at least five back again.”

“There’ll be murder afore then,” said the mate, shaking his head.

“If we could only pack ’em _both_ ’ome by train,” continued the skipper.

“That’s an expense,” said the mate.

“It ’ud be worth it,” said the other.

“An’ they wouldn’t do it,” said the mate, “neither of ’em.”

“I’ve seen women having rows afore,” said the skipper, “but then they could get away from each other. It’s being boxed up in this little craft as does the mischief.”

“S’pose we pretend the ship’s not seaworthy,” said the mate.

“Then they’d stand by us,” said the skipper, “closer than ever.”

“I b’leeve they would,” said the mate. “They’d go fast enough if we’d got a case o’ small-pox or anything like that aboard, though.”

The skipper grunted assent.

“It ’ud be worth trying,” said the mate. “We’ve pretended to have a quarrel. Now just as we’re going into port let one of the hands, the boy if you like, pretend he’s sickening for small-pox.”

“How’s he going to do it?” inquired the skipper derisively.

“You leave it to me,” replied the other. “I’ve got an idea how it’s to be done.”

Against his better judgment the skipper, after some demur, consented, and the following day, when the passengers were on deck gazing at the small port of Summercove as they slowly approached it, the cook came up excitedly and made a communication to the skipper.

“What?” cried the latter. “Nonsense.”

“What’s the matter?” demanded Mrs. Bunnett, turning round.

“Cook, here, has got it into his head that the boy’s got the smallpox,” said the skipper.

Both women gave a faint scream.

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Bunnett, with a pale face.

“Rubbish,” said Mrs. Fillson, clasping her hands nervously.

“Very good, mum,” said the cook calmly. “You know best, o’ course, but I was on a barque once what got it aboard bad, and I think I _ought_ to know it when I see it.”

“Yes; and now you think everything’s the small-pox,” said Mrs. Bunnett uneasily.

“Very well, mum,” said the cook, spreading out his hands. “Will you come down an’ ’ave a _look_ at’im?”

“No,” snapped Mrs. Bunnett, retreating a pace or two.

“Will you come down an’ ’ave a look at ’im, sir,” inquired the cook.

“You stay where you are, George,” said Mrs. Bunnett shrilly, as her husband moved forward. “Go farther off, cook.”

“And keep your tongue still when we get to port,” said the mate. “Don’t go blabbing it all over the place, mind, or we sha’n’t get nobody to work us out.”

“Ay, ay,” said the cook, moving off. “I ain’t afraid of it—I’ve given it to people, but I’ve never took it myself yet.”

“I’m sure I wish I was off this dreadful ship,” said Mrs. Fillson nervously. “Nothing but unpleasantness. How long before we get to Summercove, Cap’n Bunnett?”

“’Bout a ’our an’ a ’arf ought to do it,” said the skipper.

Both ladies sighed anxiously, and, going as far aft as possible, gazed eagerly at the harbour as it opened out slowly before them.

“I shall go back by train,” said Mrs. Bunnett “It’s a shame, having my holiday spoilt like this.”

“It’s one o’ them things what can’t be helped,” said her husband piously.

“You’d had better give me a little money,” continued his wife, “I shall get lodgings in the town for a day or two, till I see how things are going.”

“It ’ud be better for you to get straight back home,” said the skipper.

“Nonsense,” said his wife, sharply. “Suppose you take it yourself, I should have to be here to see you were looked after. I’m sure Mrs. Fillson isn’t going home.”

Mrs. Fillson, holding out her hand to Mr. Fillson, said she was sure she wasn’t.

“It’d be a load of our minds if you did go,” said the mate speaking for both.

“Well, we’re not going for a day or two at any rate,” said Mrs. Bunnett, glancing almost amiably at Mrs. Fillson.

In face of this declaration, and in view of the the persistent demands of the ladies, both men, with a very ill grace furnished them with some money.

“Don’t say a word about it ashore mind,” said the mate, avoiding his chief’s indignant gaze.

“But you must have a doctor,” said Mrs. Bunnett.

“I know of a doctor here,” said the mate; “that’s all arranged for.”

He moved away for a little private talk with the skipper, but that gentleman was not in a conversational mood, and a sombre silence fell upon all until they were snugly berthed at Summercove, and the ladies, preceded by their luggage on a trolly, went off to look for lodgings. They sent down an hour later to say that they had found them, and that they were very clean and comfortable, but a little more than they had intended to give. They implored their husbands not to run any unnecessary risks, and sent some disinfectant soap for them to wash with.

For three days they kept their lodgings and became fast friends, going, despite their anxiety, for various trips in the neighbourhood. Twice a day at least they sent down beef-tea and other delicacies for the invalid, which never got farther than the cabin, communication being kept up by a small boy who had strict injunctions not to go aboard. On the fourth day in the early morning they came down as close to the ship as they dared to bid farewell.

“Write if there’s any change for the worse,” cried Mrs. Bunnett.

“Or if you get it, George,” cried Mrs. Fillson anxiously.

“It’s all right, he’s going on beautiful,” said the mate.

The two wives appeared to be satisfied, and with a final adieu went off to the railway station, turning at every few yards to wave farewells until they were out of sight.

“If ever I have another woman aboard my ship, George,” said the skipper, “I’ll run into something. Who’s the old gentleman?”

He nodded in the direction of an elderly man with white side whiskers who, with a black bag in his hand, was making straight for the schooner.

“Captain Bunnett?” he inquired sharply.

“That’s me, sir,” said the skipper.

“Your wife sent me,” said the tall man briskly, “My name’s Thompson—Dr. Thompson. She says you’ve got a case of small-pox on board which she wants me to see.”

“We’ve got a doctor,” said the skipper and mate together.

“So your wife said, but she wished me particularly to see the case,” said Dr. Thompson. “It’s also my duty as the medical officer of the port.”

“You’ve done it, George, you’ve done it,” moaned the panic-stricken skipper reproachfully.

“Well, anybody can make a mistake,”, whispered the mate back; “an’ he can’t touch us, as it _ain’t_ small-pox. Let him come, and we’ll lay it on to the cook. Say he made a mistake.”

“That’s the ticket,” said the skipper, and turned to assist the doctor to the deck as the mate hurried below to persuade the indignant boy to strip and go bed.

In the midst of a breathless silence the doctor examined the patient; then, to the surprise of all, he turned to the crew and examined them one after the other.

“How long has this boy been ill?” he demanded.

“About four days,” said the puzzled skipper.

“You see what comes of trying to hush this kind of thing up,” said the doctor sternly. “You keep the patient down here instead of having him taken away and the ship disinfected, and now all these other poor fellows have got it.”

“_What?_” screamed the skipper, as the crew broke into profane expressions of astonishment and self-pity. “Got what?”

“Why, the small-pox,” said the doctor. “Got it in its worst form too. Suppressed. There’s not one of them got a mark on him. It’s all inside.”

“Well, I’m damned,” said the skipper, as the crew groaned despairingly.

“What else did you expect?” inquired the doctor wrathfully. “Well, they can’t be moved now; they must all go to bed, and you and the mate must nurse them.”

“And s’pose we catch it?” said the mate feelingly.

“You must take your chance,” said the doctor; then he relented a little. “I’ll try and send a couple of nurses down this afternoon,” he added. “In the mean time you must do what you can for them.”

“Very good, sir,” said the skipper brokenly.

“All you can do at present,” said the doctor as he slowly mounted the steps, “is to sponge them all over with cold water. Do it every half-hour till the rash comes out.”

“Very good,” said the skipper again. “But you’ll hurry up with the nurses, sir!”

He stood in a state of bewilderment until the doctor was out of sight, and then, with a heavy sigh, took his coat off and set to work.

He and the mate, after warning off the men who had come down to work, spent all the morning in sponging their crew, waiting with an impatience born of fatigue for the rash to come out. This impatience was shared by the crew, the state of mind of the cook after the fifth sponging calling for severe rebuke on the part of the skipper.

“I wish the nurses ’ud come, George,” he said, as they sat on the deck panting after their exertions; “this is a pretty mess if you like.”

“Seems like a judgment,” said the mate wearily.

“Hulloa, there,” came a voice from the quay.

Both men turned and looked up at the speaker.

“Hulloa,” said the skipper dully.

“What’s all this about small-pox?” demanded the newcomer abruptly.

The skipper waved his hand languidly towards the fo’c’sle.

“Five of ’em down with it,” he said quietly. “Are you another doctor, sir?”

Without troubling to reply their visitor jumped on board and went nimbly below, followed by the other two.

“Stand out of the light,” he said brusquely. “Now, my lads, let’s have a look at you.”

He examined them in a state of bewilderment, grunting strangely as the washed-out men submitted to his scrutiny.

“They’ve had the best of cold sponging,” said the skipper, not without a little pride.

“Best of what?” demanded the other.

The skipper told him, drawing back indignantly as the doctor suddenly sat down and burst into a hoarse roar of laughter. The unfeeling noise grated harshly on the sensitive ears of the sick men, and Joe Burrows, raising himself in his bunk, made a feeble attempt to hit him.

“You’ve been sold,” said the doctor, wiping his eyes.

“I don’t take your meaning,” said the skipper, with dignity.

“Somebody’s been having a joke with you,” said the doctor. “Get up, you fools, you’ve got about as much small-pox as I have.”

“Do you mean to tell me——” began the skipper.

“Somebody’s been having a joke with you, I tell you,” repeated the doctor, as the men, with sundry oaths, half of relief, half of dudgeon, got out of bed and began groping for their clothes. “Who is it, do you think?”

The skipper shook his head, and the mate, following his lead, in duty bound, shook his; but a little while after, as they sat by the wheel smoking and waiting for the men to return to work the cargo out, they were more confidential. The skipper removed his pipe from his mouth, and, having eyed the mate for some time in silence, jerked his thumb in the direction of the railway station. The mate, with a woe-begone nod, assented.

THE CABIN PASSENGER

The captain of the _Fearless_ came on to the wharf in a manner more suggestive of deer-stalking than that of a prosaic shipmaster returning to his craft. He dodged round an empty van, lurked behind an empty barrel, flitted from that to a post, and finally from the interior of a steam crane peeped melodramatically on to the deck of his craft.

To the ordinary observer there was no cause for alarm. The decks were a bit slippery but not dangerous except to a novice; the hatches were on, and in the lighted galley the cook might be discovered moving about in a manner indicative of quiet security and an untroubled conscience.

With a last glance behind him the skipper descended from the crane and stepped lightly aboard.

“Hist,” said the cook, coming out quietly. “I’ve been watching for you to come.”

“Damned fine idea of watching you’ve got,” said the skipper irritably. “What is it?”

The cook jerked his thumb towards the cabin.

“He’s down there,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

“The mate said when you came aboard you was just to go and stand near the companion and whistle ‘God Save the Queen’ and he’ll come up to you to see what’s to be done.”

“_Whistle!_” said the skipper, trying to moisten his parched lips with his tongue. “I couldn’t whistle just now to save my life.”

“The mate don’t know what to do, and that was to be the signal,” said the cook. “He’s down there with him givin’ ’im drink and amoosin’ im.

“Well, you go and whistle it,” said the skipper.

The cook wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Ow does it go?” he inquired anxiously, “I never could remember toones.”

“Oh, go and tell Bill to do it?” said the skipper impatiently.

Summoned noiselessly by the cook, Bill came up from the forecastle, and on learning what was required of him pursed up his lips and started our noble anthem with a whistle of such richness and volume that the horrified skipper was almost deafened with it. It acted on the mate like a charm, and he came from below and closed Bill’s mouth, none too gently, with a hand which shook with excitement. Then, as quietly as possible, he closed the companion and secured the fastenings.

“He’s all right,” he said to the skipper breathlessly. “He’s a prisoner. He’s ’ad four goes o’ whisky, an’ he seems inclined to sleep.”

“Who let him go down the cabin,” demanded the skipper angrily. “It’s a fine thing I can’t leave the ship for an hour or so but what I come back and find people sitting all round my cabin.”

“He let hisself darn,” said the cook, who saw a slight opening advantageous to himself in connection with a dish smashed the day before, “an’ I was that surprised, not to say alarmed, that I dropped the large dish and smashed it.”

“What did he say?” inquired the skipper.

“The blue one, I mean,” said the cook, who wanted that matter settled for good, “the one with the place at the end for the gravy to run into.”

“What did he say?” vociferated the skipper.

“’E ses,’ ’ullo,’ he ses, ‘you’ve done it now, old man,’” replied the truthful cook.

The skipper turned a furious face to the mate.

“When the cook come up and told me,” said the mate, in answer, “I see at once what was up, so I went down and just talked to him clever like.”

“I should like to know what you said,” muttered the skipper.

“Well, if you think you can do better than I did you’d better go down and see him,” retorted the mate hotly. “After all, it’s you what ’e come to see. He’s your visitor.”

“No offence, Bob,” said the skipper. “I didn’t mean nothing.”

“I don’t know nothin’ o’ horse racin’,” continued the mate, with an insufferable air, “and I never ’ad no money troubles in my life, bein’ always brought up proper at ’ome and warned of what would ’appen, but I know a sheriff’s officer when I see ’im.”

“What am I to do?” groaned the skipper, too depressed even to resent his subordinate’s manner, “it’s a judgment summons. It’s ruin if he gets me.”

“Well, so far as I can see, the only thing for you to do is to miss the ship this trip,” said the mate, without looking at him. “I can take her out all right.”

“I won’t,” said the skipper, interrupting fiercely.

“Very well, you’ll be nabbed,” said the mate.

“You’ve been wanting to handle this craft a long time,” said the skipper fiercely. “You could ha’ got rid of him if you’d wanted to. He’s no business down my cabin.”

“I tried everything I could think of,” asseverated the mate.

“Well, he’s come down on my ship without being asked,” said the skipper fiercely, “and damme he can stay there. Cast off.”

“But,” said the mate, “s’pose——”

“Cast off,” repeated the skipper. “He’s come on my ship, and I’ll give him a trip free.”

“And where are you and the mate to sleep?” Inquired the cook, who was a man of pessimistic turn of mind and given to forebodings.

“In your bunks,” said the skipper brutally. “Cast off there.”

The men obeyed, grinning, and the schooner was soon threading her way in the darkness down the river, the skipper listening somewhat nervously for the first intimation of his captive’s awakening.

He listened in vain that night, for the prisoner made no sign, but at six o’clock in the morning, when the _Fearless_, coming within sight of the Nore, began to dance like a cork upon the waters, the mate reported hollow groans from the cabin.

“Let him groan,” said the skipper briefly, “as holler as he likes.”

“Well, I’ll just go down and see how he is,” said the mate.

“You stay where you are,” said the skipper sharply.

“Well, but you ain’t going to starve the man?”

“Nothing to do with me,” said the skipper ferociously; “if a man likes to come down and stay in my cabin that’s his business. I’m not supposed to know he’s there, and if I like to lock my cabin up and sleep in a fo’s’c’le what’s got more fleas in than ten other fo’c’s’les put together, and what smells worse than ten fo’c’s’les rolled into one, that’s my business.”

“Yes, but I don’t want to berth for’ard too,” grumbled the other. “He can’t touch me. I can go and sleep in my berth.”

“You’ll do what I wish, my lad,” said the skipper.

“I’m the mate,” said the other darkly.

“And I’m the master,” said the other; “if the master of a ship can stay down the fo’c’s’le, I’m sure a tuppeny-ha’penny mate can.”

“The men don’t like it,” objected the mate.

“Damn the men,” said the skipper politely, “and as to starving the chap, there’s a water-bottle full o’ water in my state-room, to say nothing of a jug, and a bag o’ biscuits under the table.”

The mate walked off whistling, and the skipper, by no means so easy in his mind as he pretended to be, began to consider ways and means out of the difficulty which he foresaw must occur when they reached port.

“What sort o’ looking chap is he?” he inquired of the cook.

“Big, strong-looking chap,” was the reply.

“Look as though he’d make a fuss if I sent you and Bill down below to gag him when we get to the other end?” suggested the skipper.

The cook said that judging by appearances “fuss” would be no word for it.

“I can’t understand him keeping so quiet,” said the skipper, “that’s what gets over me.”

“He’s biding ’is time, I expect,” said the cook comfortingly. “He’s a ’ard looking customer, ’sides which he’s likely sea-sick.”

The day passed slowly, and as night approached a sense of mystery and discomfort overhung the vessel. The man at the wheel got nervous, and flattered Bill into keeping him company by asking him to spin him a yarn. He had good reason for believing that he knew his comrade’s stock of stories by heart, but in the sequel it transpired that there was one, of a prisoner turning into a cat and getting out of the porthole and running up helmsmen’s backs, which he hadn’t heard before. And he told Bill in the most effective language he could command that he never wanted to hear it again.

The night passed and day broke, and still the mysterious passenger made no sign. The crew got in the habit of listening at the companion and peeping through the skylight; but the door of the state-room was closed, and the cabin itself as silent as the grave. The skipper went about with a troubled face, and that afternoon, unable to endure the suspense any longer, civilly asked the mate to go below and investigate.

“I’d rather not,” said the mate, shrugging his shoulders.

“I’d sooner he served me and have done with it,” said the skipper. “I get thinking all sorts of awful things.”

“Well, why don’t you go down yourself,” said the mate. “He’d serve you fast enough, I’ve no doubt.”

“Well, it may be just his artfulness,” said the skipper; “an’ I don’t want to humour him if he’s all right. I’m askin’ it as a favour, Bob.”

“I’ll go if the cook’ll come,” said the mate after a pause.

The cook hesitated.

“Go on, cook,” said the skipper sharply; “don’t keep the mate waiting, and, whatever you do, don’t let him come up on deck.”

The mate led the way to the companion, and, opening it quietly, led the way below, followed by the cook. There was a minute’s awful suspense, and then a wild cry rang out below, and the couple came dashing madly up on deck again.

“What is it?” inquired the pallid skipper.

The mate, leaning for support against the wheel, opened his mouth, but no words came; the cook, his hands straight by his side and his eyes glassy, made a picture from which the crew drew back in awe.

“What’s—the—matter?” said the skipper again.

Then the mate, regaining his composure by an effort, spoke.

“You needn’t trouble to fasten the companion again,” he said slowly.

The skipper’s face changed from white to grey, “Why not?” he asked in a trembling voice.

“He’s dead,” was the solemn reply.

“Nonsense,” said the other, with quivering lips.

“He’s shamming or else fainting. Did you try to bring him round?”

“I did not,” said the mate. “I don’t deceive you. I didn’t stay down there to do no restoring, and I don’t think you would either.”

“Go down and see whether you can wake him, cook,” said the skipper.

“Not me,” said the cook with a mighty shudder.

Two of the hands went and peeped furtively down through the skylight. The empty cabin looked strangely quiet and drear, and the door of the state-room stood ajar. There was nothing to satisfy their curiosity, but they came back looking as though they had seen a ghost.

“What’s to be done?” said the skipper, helplessly.

“Nothing can be done,” said the mate. “He’s beyond our aid.”

“I wasn’t thinking about _him_,” said the skipper.

“Well, the best thing you can do when we get to Plymouth is to bolt,” said the mate. “We’ll hide it up as long as we can to give you a start. It’s a hanging matter.”

The hapless master of the _Fearless_ wiped his clammy brow. “I can’t think he’s dead,” he said slowly. “Who’ll come down with me to see?”

“You’d better leave it alone,” said the mate kindly, “it ain’t pleasant, and besides that we can all swear up to the present that you haven’t touched him or been near him.”

“Who’ll come down with me?” repeated the skipper. “I believe it’s a trick, and that he’ll start up and serve me, but I feel I must go.”

He caught Bill’s eye, and that worthy seaman, after a short tussle with his nerves, shuffled after him. The skipper brushing aside the mate, who sought to detain him, descended first, and entering the cabin stood hesitating, with Bill close behind him.

“Just open the door, Bill,” he said slowly.

“Arter you, sir,” said the well-bred Bill.

The skipper stepped slowly towards it and flung it suddenly open. Then he drew back with a sharp cry and looked nervously about him. _The bed was empty_.

“Where’s he gone?” whispered the trembling Bill.

“The other made no reply, but in a dazed fashion began to grope about the cabin. It was a small place and soon searched, and the two men sat down and eyed each other in blank amazement.

“Where is he?” said Bill at length.

The skipper shook his head helplessly, and was about to ascribe the mystery to supernatural agencies, when the truth in all its naked simplicity flashed upon him, and he spoke. “It’s the mate,” he said slowly, “the mate and the cook. I see it all now; there’s never been anybody here. It was a little job on the mate’s part to get the ship. If you want to hear a couple o’ rascals sized up, Bill, come on deck.”

And Bill, grinning in anticipation, went.

“CHOICE SPIRITS”

The day was fine and the breeze so light that the old patched sails were taking the schooner along at a gentle three knots per hour. A sail or two shone like snow in the offing, and a gull hovered in the air astern. From the cabin to the galley, and from the galley to the untidy tangle in the bows, there was no sign of life to benefit by the conversation of the skipper and mate as they discussed a wicked and mutinous spirit which had become observable in the crew.

“It’s sheer, rank wickedness, that’s what it is,” said the skipper, a small, elderly man, with grizzled beard and light blue eyes.

“Rank,” agreed the mate, whose temperament was laconic.

“Why, when I was a boy you wouldn’t believe what I had to eat,” said the skipper; “not if I took my Bible oath on it, you wouldn’t.”

“They’re dainty,” said the mate.

“Dainty!” said the other indignantly. “What right have hungry sailormen to be dainty? Don’t I give them enough to eat? Look! Look there!”

He drew back, choking, and pointed with his forefinger as Bill Smith, A.B., came on deck with a plate held at arm’s length, and a nose disdainfully elevated. He affected not to see the skipper, and, walking in a mincing fashion to the side, raked the food from the plate into the sea with his fingers. He was followed by George Simpson, A.B., who in the same objectionable fashion wasted food which the skipper had intended should nourish his frame.

“I’ll pay ’em for this,” murmured the skipper.

“There’s some more,” said the mate.

Two more men came on deck, grinning consciously, and disposed of their dinners. Then there was an interval—an interval in which everybody fore and aft, appeared to be waiting for something; the something being at that precise moment standing at the foot of the foc’sle ladder, trying to screw its courage up.

“If the boy comes,” said the skipper in a strained, unnatural voice, “I’ll flay him alive.”

“You’d better get your knife out, then,” said the mate.

The boy appeared on deck, very white about the gills, and looking piteously at the crew for support. He became conscious from their scowls that he had forgotten something, and remembering himself, stretched out his skinny arms to their full extent, and, crinkling his nose, walked with great trepidation to the side.

“Boy!” vociferated the skipper suddenly.

“Yessir,” said the urchin hastily.

“Comm’ere,” said the skipper sternly.

“Shove your dinner over first,” said four low, menacing voices.

The boy hesitated, then walked slowly towards the skipper.

“What are you going to do with that dinner?” demanded the latter grimly.

“Eat it,” said the youth modestly.

“What d’yer bring it on deck for, then?” inquired the other, bending his brows on him.

“I thought it would taste better on deck, sir,” said the boy.

“Taste better!” growled the skipper ferociously. “Ain’t it good?”

“Yessir,” said the boy.

“Speak louder,” said the skipper sternly. “Is it very good?”

“Beautiful,” said the boy in a shrill falsetto.

“Did you ever taste better wittles than you get aboard this ship?” demanded the skipper, setting him a fine example in loud speaking.

“Never!” yelled the boy, following it.

“Everything as it should be?” roared the skipper.

“Better than it should be,” shrilled the craven

“Sit down and eat it,” commanded the other.

The boy sat on the cabin skylight, and, taking out his pocket-knife, began his meal with every appearance of enjoyment, the skipper, with his elbows on the side, and his legs crossed, regarding him serenely.

“I suppose,” he said loudly, after watching the boy for some time, “I s’pose the men threw theirs overboard becos they hadn’t been used to such good food?”

“Yessir,” said the boy.

“Did they say so?” bawled the other.

The boy hesitated, and glanced nervously forward. “Yessir,” he said at length, and shuddered as a low, ominous growl came from the crew. Despite his slowness the meal came to an end at last, and, in obedience to orders, he rose and took his plate forward, looking entreatingly at the crew as he passed them.

“Come down below,” said Bill, “we want to have a talk with you.”

“Can’t,” said the boy. “I’ve got my work to do. I haven’t got time to talk.”

He stayed up on deck until evening, and then, the men’s anger having evaporated somewhat, crept softly below, and climbed into his bunk. Simpson leaned over and made a clutch at him, but Bill pushed him aside.

“Leave him alone,” said he quietly, “we’ll take it out of him to-morrow.”

For some time Tommy lay worrying over the fate in store for him, and then, yielding to fatigue, turned over and slept soundly until he was awakened some three hours later by the men’s voices, and, looking out, saw that the lamp was alight and the crew at supper, listening quietly to Bill, who was speaking.

“I’ve a good mind to strike, that’s what I’ve a good mind to do,” he said savagely, as, after an attempt at the butter, he put it aside and ate dry biscuit.

“An’ get six months,” said old Ned. “That won’t do, Bill.”

“Are we to go a matter of six or seven days on dry biscuit and rotten taters?” demanded the other fiercely. “Why, it’s slow sooicide.”

“I wish one of you would commit sooicide,” said Ned, looking wistfully round at the faces, “that ’ud frighten the old man, and bring him round a bit.”

“Well, you’re the eldest,” said Bill pointedly.

“Browning’s a easy death too,” said Simpson persuasively, “you can’t have much enjoyment in life at your age, Ned?”

“And you might leave a letter behind to the skipper, saying as ’ow you was drove to it by bad food,” said the cook, who was getting ex-cited.

“Talk sense!” said the old man very shortly.

“Look here,” said Bill suddenly, “I tell you what we can do: let one of us pretend to commit suicide, and write a letter as Slushey here ses, saying as ’ow we’re gone overboard sooner than be starved to death. It ’ud scare the old man proper; and p’raps he’d let us start on the other meat without eating up this rotten stuff first!”

“How’s it to be done!” asked Simpson, staring.

“Go an’ ’ide down the fore ’old,” said Bill “There’s not much stuff down there. We’ll take off the hatch when one of us is on watch to-night, and—whoever wants to—can go and hide down there till the old man’s come to his senses. What do you think of it, mates?”

“It’s all right as an idea,” said Ned slowly, “but who’s going?”

“Tommy,” replied Bill simply.

“Blest if I ever thought of him,” said Ned admiringly, “did you, cookie?”

“Never crossed my mind,” said the cook.

“You see the best o’ Tommy’s going,” said Bill, “is that the old man ’ud only give him a flogging if he found it out. We wouldn’t split as to who put the hatch on over him. He can be there as comfortable as you please, do nothing, and sleep all day if he likes. O’ course we don’t know anything about it, we miss Tommy, and find the letter wrote on this table.”

The cook leaned forward and regarded his colleague favourably; then he pursed his lips, and nodded significantly at an upper bunk from which the face of Tommy, pale and scared, looked anxiously down.

“Halloa!” said Bill, “have you heard what we’ve been saying?”

“I heard you say something about going to drown old Ned,” said Tommy guardedly.

“He’s heard all about it,” said the cook severely. “Do you know where little boys who tell lies go to, Tommy?”

“I’d sooner go there than down the fore ’old,” said Tommy, beginning to knuckle his eyes. “I won’t go. I’ll tell the skipper.”

“No, you won’t,” said Bill sternly. “This is your punishment for them lies you told about us to-day, an’ very cheap you’ve got off too. Now, get out o’ that bunk. Come on afore I pull you out.”

With a miserable whimper the youth dived beneath his blankets, and, clinging frantically to the edge of his berth, kicked convulsively as he was lifted down, blankets and all, and accommodated with a seat at the table.

“Pen and ink and paper, Ned,” said Bill.

The old man produced them, and Bill, first wiping off with his coat-sleeve a piece of butter which the paper had obtained from the table, spread it before the victim.

“I can’t write,” said Tommy sullenly.

The men looked at each other in dismay.

“It’s a lie,” said the cook.

“I tell you I can’t,” said the urchin, becoming hopeful, “that’s why they sent me to sea becos I couldn’t read or write.”

“Pull his ear, Bill,” said Ned, annoyed at these aspersions upon an honourable profession.

“It don’t matter,” said Bill, calmly. “I’ll write it for ’im; the old man don’t know my fist.”

He sat down at the table, and, squaring his shoulders, took a noisy dip of ink, and scratching his head, looked pensively at the paper.

“Better spell it bad, Bill,” suggested Ned.

“Ay, ay,” said the other. “’Ow do you think a boy would spell sooicide, Ned?”

The old man pondered. “S-o-o-e-y-s-i-d-e,” he said slowly.

“Why, that’s the right way, ain’t it?” inquired the cook, looking from one to the other.

“We mustn’t spell it right,” said Bill, with his pen hovering over the paper. “Be careful, Ned.”

“We’ll say killed myself instead,” said the old man. “A boy wouldn’t use such a big word as that p’raps.”

Bill bent over his work, and, apparently paying great attention to his friends’ entreaties not to write it too well, slowly wrote the letter.

“How’s this?” he inquired, sitting back in his seat.

“‘Deer captin i take my pen in hand for the larst time to innform you that i am no more suner than heat the ’orrible stuff what you kall meet i have drownded miself it is a moor easy death than starvin’ i ’ave left my clasp nife to bill an’ my silver wotch to it is ’ard too dee so young tommie brown.’”

“Splendid!” said Ned, as the reader finished and looked inquiringly round.

“I put in that bit about the knife and the watch to make it seem real,” said Bill, with modest pride; “but, if you like, I’ll leave ’em to you instead, Ned.”

“I don’t want ’em,” said the old man generously.

“Put your cloes on,” said Bill, turning to the whimpering Tommy.

“I’m _not_ going down that fore ’old,” said Tommy desperately. “You may as well know now as later on—I won’t go.”

“Cookie,” said Bill calmly, “just ’and me them cloes, will you? Now, Tommy.”

“I tell you, I’m not going to,” said Tommy.

“An’ that little bit o’ rope, cookie,” said Bill, “it’s just down by your ’and. Now, Tommy.”

The youngest member of the crew looked from his clothes to the rope, and from the rope back to his clothes again.

“How’m I goin’ to be fed?” he demanded sullenly, as he began to dress.

“You’ll have a stone bottle o’ water to take down with you an’ some biskits,” replied Bill, “an’ of a night time we’ll hand you down some o’ that meat you’re so fond of. Hide ’em behind the cargo, an’ if you hear anybody take the hatch off in the day time, nip behind it yourself.”

“An’ what about fresh air?” demanded the sacrifice.

“You’ll ’ave fresh air of a night when the hatch is took off,” said Bill. “Don’t you worry, I’ve thought of everything.”

The arrangements being concluded, they waited until Simpson relieved the mate at the helm, and then trooped up on deck, half-pushing and half-leading their reluctant victim.

“It’s just as if he was going on a picnic,” said old Ned, as the boy stood unwillingly on the deck, with a stone bottle in one hand and some biscuits wrapped up in an old newspaper in the other.

“Lend a ’and, Bill. Easy does it.”

Noiselessly the two seamen took off the hatch, and, as Tommy declined to help in the proceedings at all, Ned clambered down first to receive him. Bill took him by the scruff of the neck and lowered him down, kicking strongly, into the hold.

“Have you got him?” inquired Bill.

“Yes,” said Ned in a smothered voice, and, depositing the boy in the hold, hastily clambered up again, wiping his mouth.

“Been having a swig at the bottle?” inquired Bill.

“Boy’s heel,” said Ned very shortly. “Get the hatch on.”

The hatch was replaced, and Bill and his fellow conspirator, treading quietly and not without some apprehension for the morrow, went below and turned in. Tommy, who had been at sea long enough to take things as he found them, curled up in the corner of the hold, and with his bottle as a pillow fell asleep.

It was not until eight o’clock next morning that the master of the _Sunbeam_ discovered that he was a boy short. He questioned the cook as he sat at breakfast. The cook, who was a very nervous man, turned pale, set the coffee-pot down with a thump which upset some of the liquor, and bolted up on deck. The skipper, after shouting for him in some of the most alluring swear words known on the high seas, went raging up on deck, where he found the men standing in a little knot, looking very ill at ease.

“Bill,” said the skipper uneasily, “what’s the matter with that damned cook?”

“’E’s ’ad a shock, sir,” said Bill, shaking his head, “we’ve all ’ad a shock.”

“You’ll have another in a minute,” said the skipper emotionally. “Where’s the boy?”

For a moment Bill’s hardihood forsook him, and he looked helplessly at his mates. In their anxiety to avoid his gaze they looked over the side, and a horrible fear came over the skipper. He looked at Bill mutely, and Bill held out a dirty piece of paper.

The skipper read it through in a state of stupefaction, then he handed it to the mate, who had followed him on deck. The mate read it and handed it back.

“It’s yours,” he said shortly.

“I don’t understand it,” said the skipper, shaking his head. “Why, only yesterday he was up on deck here eating his dinner, and saying it was the best meat he ever tasted. You heard him, Bob?”

“I _heard_ him, pore little devil!” said the mate.

“You all heard him,” said the skipper.

“Well, there’s five witnesses I’ve got. He must have been mad. Didn’t nobody hear him go overboard?”

“I ’eard a splash, sir, in my watch,” said Bill.

“Why didn’t you run and see what it was?” demanded the other.

“I thought it was one of the chaps come up to throw his supper overboard,” said Bill simply.

“Ah!” said the skipper, biting his lip, “did you? You’re always going on about the grub. What’s the matter with it?”

“It’s pizon, sir,” said Ned, shaking his head. “The meat’s awful.”

“It’s as sweet as nuts,” said the skipper. “Well, you can have it out of the other tank if you like. Will that satisfy you?”

The men brightened up a little and nudged each other.

“The butters bad too, sir,” said Bill.

“Butter bad!” said the skipper frowning, “how’s that, cook?”

“I ain’t done nothing to it, sir,” said the cook helplessly.

“Give ’em butter out o’ the firkin in the cabin,” growled the skipper. “It’s my firm belief you’d been ill-using that boy, the food was delicious.”

He walked off, taking the letter with him, and, propping it up against the sugar-basin, made but a poor breakfast.