CHAPTER VII
He brought up off Greenwich in the cold grey of the breaking day. Craft of all shapes and sizes were passing up and down, but he looked in vain for any sign of the skipper. It was galling to him as a seaman to stay there with the wind blowing freshly down the river; but over an hour elapsed before a yell from Tim, who was leaning over the bows, called his attention to a waterman’s skiff, in the stern of which sat a passenger of somewhat dejected appearance. He had the air of a man who had been up all night, and in place of returning the hearty and significant greeting of the mate, sat down in an exhausted fashion on the cabin skylight, and eyed him in stony silence until they were under way again.
“Well,” he said at length, ungraciously.
Chilled by his manner, Fraser, in place of the dramatic fashion in which he had intended to relate the events of the preceding night, told him in a few curt sentences what had occurred. “And you can finish this business for yourself,” he concluded, warmly; “I’ve had enough of it.”
“You’ve made a pretty mess of it,” groaned the other; “there’ll be a fine set-out now. Why couldn’t you coax ‘em away? That’s what I wanted you to do. That’s what I told you to do.”
“Well, you’ll have plenty of opportunities of coaxing yourself so far as I can see,” retorted Fraser, grimly. “Then you’ll see how it works. It was the only way of getting rid of them.”
“You ought to have sent round to me and let me know what you were doing,” said Flower. “I sat in that blamed pub till they turned me out at twelve, expecting you every minute. I’d only threepence left by then, and I crossed the water with that, and then I had to shuffle along to Greenwich as best I could with a bad foot. What’ll be the end of it all, I don’t know.”
“Well, you’re all right at present,” said Fraser, glancing round; “rather different to what you’d have been if those two women had come to Ipswich and seen Cap’n Barber.”
The other sat for a long time in thought. “I’ll lay up for a few weeks with this foot,” he said, slowly, “and you’ll have to tell the Tipping family that I’ve changed into another trade. What with the worry I’ve had lately, I shall be glad of a rest.”
He made his way below, and turning in slept soundly after his fatigue until the cook aroused him a few hours later with the information that breakfast was ready.
A wash and a change, together with a good breakfast, effected as much change in his spirits as in his appearance. Refreshed in mind and body, he slowly paced the deck, his chest expanding as he sniffed the fresh air, and his soul, encouraged by the dangers he had already passed through, bracing itself for fresh encounters.
“I ‘ope the foot is goin’ on well, sir,” said Tim, breaking in upon his meditations, respectfully.
“Much easier this morning,” said the skipper, amiably.
Tim, who was lending the cook a hand, went back into the galley to ponder. As a result of a heated debate in the fo’c’s’le, where the last night’s proceedings and the mysterious appearance of the skipper off Greenwich had caused a great sensation, they had drawn lots to decide who was to bell the cat, and Tim had won or lost according as the subject might be viewed.
“You don’t want to walk about on it much, sir,” he said, thrusting his head out again.
The skipper nodded.
“I was alarmed last night,” said Tim. “We was all alarmed,” he added, hastily, in order that the others might stand in with the risk, “thinking that perhaps you’d walked too far and couldn’t get back.”
The master of the Foam looked at him, but made no reply, and Tim’s head was slowly withdrawn. The crew, who had been gazing over the side with their ears at the utmost tension, gave him five minutes’ grace and then, the skipper having gone aft again, walked up to the galley.
“I’ve done all I could,” said the wretched youth.
“Done all ye could?” said Joe, derisively, “why you ain’t done nothin’ yet.”
“I can’t say anything more,” said Tim. “I dassent. I ain’t got your pluck, Joe.”
“Pluck be damned!” said the seaman, fiercely; “why there was a chap I knew once, shipwrecked he was, and had to take to the boats. When the grub give out they drew lots to see who should be killed and eaten. He lost. Did ‘e back out of it? Not a bit of it; ‘e was a man, an’ ‘e shook ‘ands with ‘em afore they ate ‘im and wished ‘em luck.”
“Well, you can kill and eat me if that’s what you want,” said Tim, desperately. “I’d sooner ‘ave that.”
“Mind you,” said Joe, “till you’ve arsked them questions and been answered satisfactorily—none of us’ll ‘ave anything to do with you, besides which I’ll give you such a licking as you’ve never ‘ad before.”
He strolled off with Ben and the cook, as the skipper came towards them again, and sat down in the bows. Tim, sore afraid of his shipmates’ contempt, tried again.
“I wanted to ask your pardon in case I done wrong last night, sir,” he said, humbly.
“All right, it’s granted,” replied the other, walking away.
Tim raised his eyes to heaven, and then lowering them, looked even more beseechingly at his comrades.
“Go on,” said Ben, shaping the words only with his mouth.
“I don’t know, sir, whether you know what I was alloodin’ to just now,” said Tim, in trembling accents, as the skipper came within earshot again. “I’m a-referring to a cab ride.”
“And I told you that I’ve forgiven you,” said Flower, sternly, “forgiven you freely—all of you.”
“It’s a relief to my mind, sir,” faltered the youth, staring.
“Don’t mix yourself up in my business again, that’s all,” said the skipper; “you mightn’t get off so easy next time.”
“It’s been worrying me ever since, sir,” persisted Tim, who was half fainting. “I’ve been wondering whether I ought to have answered them ladies’ questions, and told ‘em what I did tell ‘em.”
The skipper swung round hastily and confronted him. “Told them?” he stuttered, “told them what?”
“I ‘ardly remember, sir,” said Tim, alarmed at his manner. “Wot with the suddenness o’ the thing, an’ the luckshury o’ riding in a cab, my ‘ead was in a whirl.”
“What did they ask you?” demanded the shipper.
“They asked me what Cap’n Flower was like an’ where ‘e lived,” said Tim, “an’ they asked me whether I knew a Mr. Robinson.”
Captain Flower, his eyes blazing, waited.
“I said I ‘adn’t got the pleasure o’ Mr. Robinson’s acquaintance,” said Tim, with a grand air. “I was just goin’ to tell ‘em about you when Joe ‘ere gave me a pinch.”
“Well?” enquired the skipper, stamping with impatience.
“I pinched ‘im back agin,” said Tim, smiling tenderly at the reminiscence.
“Tim’s a fool, sir,” said Joe, suddenly, as the overwrought skipper made a move towards the galley. “‘E didn’t seem to know wot ‘e was a sayin’ of, so I up and told ‘em all about you.”
“You did, did you? Damn you,” said Flower, bitterly.
“In answer to their questions, sir,” said Joe, “I told ‘em you was a bald-headed chap, marked with the small-pox, and I said when you was at ‘ome, which was seldom, you lived at Aberdeen.”
The skipper stepped towards him and laid his hand affectionately on his shoulder. “You ought to have been an admiral, Joe,” he said, gratefully, without intending any slur on a noble profession.
“I also told George, the watchman, to tell ‘em the same thing, if they came round again worrying,” said Joe, proudly.
The skipper patted him on the shoulder again.
“One o’ these days, Joe,” he remarked, “you shall know all about this little affair; for the present it’s enough to tell you that a certain unfortunate young female has took a fancy to a friend o’ mine named Robinson, but it’s very important, for Robinson’s sake, that she shouldn’t see me or get to know anything about me. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly,” said Joe, sagely.
His countenance was calm and composed, but the cook’s forehead had wrinkled itself into his hair in a strong brain effort, while Ben was looking for light on the deck, and not finding it. Flower, as a sign that the conversation was now ended, walked aft again, and taking the wheel from the mate, thoughtfully suggested that he should go below and turn in for five minutes.
“I’ll get through this all right, after all,” he said, comfortably. “I’ll lay up at Seabridge for a week or two, and after that I’ll get off the schooner at Greenwich for a bit and let you take her up to London. Then I’ll write a letter in the name of Robinson and send it to a man I know in New York to post from there to Miss Tipping.”
His spirits rose and he slapped Fraser heartily on the back. “That disposes of one,” he said, cheerily. “Lor’, in years to come how I shall look back and laugh over all this!”
“Yes, I think it’ll be some time before you do any laughing to speak of,” said Fraser.
“Ah, you always look on the dark side of things,” said Flower, briskly.
“Of course, as things are, you’re going to marry Miss Banks,” said Fraser, slowly.
“No, I’m not,” said the other, cheerfully; “it strikes me there’s plenty of time before that will come to a head, and that gives me time to turn round. I don’t think she’s any more anxious for it than I am.”
“But suppose it does come to a head,” persisted Fraser, “what are you going to do?”
“I shall find a way out of it,” said the skipper, confidently. “Meantime, just as an exercise for your wits, you might try and puzzle out what would be the best thing to do in such a case.”
His good spirits lasted all the way to Seabridge, and, the schooner berthed, he went cheerfully off home. It was early afternoon when he arrived, and, Captain Barber being out, he had a comfortable tête à tête with Mrs. Church, in which he was able to dilate pretty largely upon the injury to his foot. Captain Barber did not return until the tea was set, and then shaking hands with his nephew, took a seat opposite, and in a manner more than unusually boisterous, kept up a long conversation.
It was a matter of surprise to Flower that, though the talk was by no means of a sorrowful nature, Mrs. Church on three separate occasions rose from the table and left the room with her handkerchief to her eyes. At such times his uncle’s ideas forsook him, and he broke off not only in the middle of a sentence, but even in the middle of a word. At the third time Flower caught his eye, and with a dumb jerk of his head toward the door enquired what it all meant.
“Tell you presently,” said his uncle, in a frightened whisper, “Hush! Don’t take no notice of it. Not a word.”
“What is it?” persisted Flower.
Captain Barber gave a hurried glance towards the door and then leaned over the table “Broken ‘art,” he whispered, sorrowfully.
Flower whistled, and, full of the visions which this communication opened up, neglected to join in the artificial mirth which his uncle was endeavouring to provoke upon the housekeeper’s return. Finally he worked up a little mirth on his own account, and after glancing from his uncle to the housekeeper, and from the housekeeper back to his uncle again, smothered his face in his handkerchief and rushed from the room.
“Bit on a bad tooth,” he said, untruthfully, when he came back.
Captain Barber eyed him fiercely, but Mrs. Church regarded him with compassionate interest, and, having got the conversation upon such a safe subject, kept it there until the meal was finished.
“What’s it all about?” enquired Flower, as, tea finished, Captain Barber carried his chair to the extreme end of the garden and beckoned his nephew to do likewise.
“You’re the cause of it,” said Captain Barber, severely.
“Me?” said Flower, in surprise.
“You know that little plan I told you of when you was down here?” said the other.
His nephew nodded.
“It came off,” groaned Captain Barber. “I’ve got news for you as’ll make you dance for joy.”
“I’ve got a bad foot,” said Flower, paling.
“Never mind about your foot,” said his uncle, regarding him fixedly. “Your banns are up.”
“Up! Up where?” gasped Flower.
“Why—in the church,” said the other, staring at him; “where do you think? I got the old lady’s consent day before yesterday, and had ‘em put up at once.”
“Is she dead, then?” enquired his nephew, in a voice the hollowness of which befitted the question.
“How the devil could she be?” returned his uncle, staring at him.
“No, I didn’t think of that,” said Flower; “of course, she couldn’t give her consent, could she—not if she was dead, I mean.”
Captain Barber drew his chair back and looked at him. “His joy has turned his brain,” he said, with conviction.
“No, it’s my foot,” said Flower, rallying. “I’ve had no sleep with it. I’m delighted! Delighted! After all these years.”
“You owe it to me,” said his uncle, with a satisfied air. “I generally see my way clear to what I want, and generally get it, too. I’ve played Mrs. Banks and Mrs. Church agin one another without their knowing it. Both ‘elpless in my hands, they was.”
“But what’s the matter with Mrs. Church?” said his depressed nephew.
“Oh, that’s the worst of it,” said Uncle Barber, shaking his head. “While I was in play, that pore woman must have thought I was in earnest. She don’t say nothing. Not a word, and the efforts she makes to control her feelings is noble.”
“Have you told her she has got to go then?” enquired Flower.
Captain Barber shook his head. “Mrs. Banks saved me that trouble,” he said, grimly.
“But she can’t take notice from Mrs. Banks,” said Flower, “it’ll have to come from you.”
“All in good time,” said Captain Barber, wiping his face. “As I’ve done all this for you, I was going to let you tell her.”
“Me!” said Flower, with emphasis.
“Certainly,” said Captain Barber, with more emphasis still. “Just get her to yourself on the quiet and allude to it casual. Then after that bring the subject up when I’m in the room. As it’s to make room for you and your wife, you might fix the date for ‘er to go. That’ll be the best way to do it.”
“It seems to me it is rather hard on her,” said his nephew, compassionately; “perhaps we had better wait a little longer.”
“Certainly not,” said Captain Barber, sharply; “don’t I tell you your banns are up. You’re to be asked in church first time next Sunday. You’ll both live with me as agreed, and I’m going to make over three o’ the cottages to you and a half-share in the ship. The rest you’ll have to wait for. Why don’t you look cheerful? You ought to.”
“I’m cheerful enough,” said Flower, recovering himself. “I’m thinking of you.”
“Me?” said his uncle.
“You and Mrs. Church,” said his nephew. “So far as I can see, you’ve committed yourself.”
“I can manage,” said Uncle Barber. “I’ve always been master in my own house. Now you’d better step round and see the bride that is to be.”
“Well, you be careful,” said his nephew, warningly.
“I’m coming, too,” said Captain Barber, with some haste; “there’s no need to stay and wait for trouble. When you go into the house, come back as though you’d forgotten something, and sing out to me that you want me to come too—hard enough for ‘er to hear, mind.”
CHAPTER VIII
The bewildered master of the Foam spent the remainder of the time at Seabridge in a species of waking nightmare.
A grey-haired dressmaker and a small apprentice sat in the Banks’ best parlour, and from a chaos of brown paper patterns stuck over with pins a silk dress of surpassing beauty began slowly to emerge. As a great concession Flower was allowed to feel the material, and even to rub it between his finger and thumb in imitation of Captain Barber, who was so prone to the exercise that a small piece was cut for his especial delectation. A colour of unwonted softness glowed in the cheek of Elizabeth and an air of engaging timidity tempered her interview with Flower, who had to run the gauntlet of much friendly criticism on the part of his fair neighbours.
Up to the time of sailing for London again the allusion to Mrs. Church’s departure, desired by Captain Barber, had not been made by the younger man. The housekeeper was still in possession, and shook hands with him at the front door as he limped slowly off with Miss Banks and his uncle to go down to the schooner. His foot was still very bad, so bad that he stumbled three times on the way to the quay despite the assistance afforded by the arm of his betrothed.
“Seems to be no power in it,” he said smiling faintly; “but I daresay it’ll be all right by the time I get back.”
He shook hands with Captain Barber and, as a tribute to conventionality, kissed Miss Banks. The last the two saw of him, he was standing at the wheel waving his handkerchief. They waved their own in return, and as the Foam drew rapidly away gave a final farewell and departed.
“What’s the game with the foot?” enquired the mate, in a low voice.
“Tell you by-and-by,” said the skipper; “it’s far from well, but even if it wasn’t I should pretend it was bad. I suppose that doesn’t suggest anything to you?”
The mate shook his head.
“Can you see any way out of it?” enquired the other. “What would you do if you were in my place?”
“Marry the girl I wanted to marry,” said the mate, sturdily, “and not trouble about anything else.”
“And lose thirteen cottages and this ship and my berth in the bargain,” said the skipper. “Now you try and think of some other way, and if you haven’t thought of it by dinner-time, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do.”
No other scheme having suggested itself to the mate by the time that meal arrived, he prepared to play the part of listener. The skipper, after carefully closing both the door and the skylight, prepared to speak.
“I’m in a desperate fix, Jack, that you’ll admit,” he said, by way of preparation.
The mate cordially agreed with him.
“There’s Poppy down at Poplar, Matilda at Chelsea, and Elizabeth at Seabridge,” continued Flower, indicating various points on the table with his finger as he spoke. “Some men would give up in despair, but I’ve thought of a way out of it. I’ve never got into a corner I couldn’t get out of yet.”
“You want a little help though sometimes,” said Fraser.
“All part of my plans,” rejoined Flower, airily. “If it hadn’t been for my uncle’s interference I should have been all right. A man’s no business to be so officious. As it is, I’ve got to do something decided.”
“If I were you,” interrupted Fraser, “I should go to Captain Barber and tell him straight and plain how the thing stands. You needn’t mention anything about Miss Tipping. Tell him about the other, and that you intend to marry her. It’ll be beat in the long run, and fairer to Miss Tyrell, too.”
“You don’t know my uncle as well as I do,” retorted the skipper. “He’s as obstinate an old fool as ever breathed. If I did as you say I should lose everything. Now, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do:—To-night, during your watch, I shall come up on deck and stand on the side of the ship to look at something in the water, when I shall suddenly hear a shout.”
The mate, who had a piece of dumpling on his fork, half-way to his mouth, put it down again and regarded him open-mouthed.
“My foot,” continued the skipper, in surprisingly even tones, answering his subject, “will then give way and I shall fall overboard.”
The mate was about to speak, but the skipper, gazing in a rapt manner before him, waved him into silence.
“You will alarm the crew and pitch a life-belt overboard,” he continued; “you will then back sails and lower the boat.”
“You’d better take the lifebelt with you, hadn’t you?” enquired the mate, anxiously.
“I shall be picked up by a Norwegian barque, bound for China,” continued the skipper, ignoring the interruption; “I shall be away at least six months, perhaps more, according as things turn out.”
The mate pushed his scarcely tasted dinner from him, and got up from the table. It was quite evident to him that the skipper’s love affairs had turned his brain.
“By the time I get back, Matilda’ll have ceased from troubling, anyway,” said the skipper, “and I have strong hopes that Elizabeth’ll take Gibson. I shall stay away long enough to give her a fair chance, anyway.”
“But s’pose you get drowned before anything can pick you up!” suggested the mate, feebly.
“Drowned?” repeated the skipper. “Why, you didn’t think I was really going overboard, did you? I shall be locked up in my state-room.”
The mate’s brow cleared and then darkened again, suddenly. “I see, some more lies for me to tell, I suppose,” he said, angrily.
“After you’ve raised the alarm and failed to recover the body,” said the skipper, with relish, “you’ll lock my door and put the key in your pocket. That would be the proper thing to do if I really did go overboard, you know, and when we get to London I’ll just slip quietly ashore.”
The mate came back to his dinner and finished it in silence, while the skipper kept up a rambling fire of instructions for his future guidance.
“And what about Miss Tyrell?” said the mate, at length. “Is she to know?”
“Certainly not,” said Flower, sharply. “I wouldn’t have her know for anything. You’re the only person to know, Jack. You’ll have to break the news to ‘em all, and mind you do it gently, so as not to cause more grief than you can help.”
“I won’t do it at all,” said the mate.
“Yes, you will,” said Flower, “and if Matilda or her mother come down again, show it to ‘em in the paper. Then they’ll know it’ll be no good worrying Cap’n Flower again. If they see it in the paper they’ll know it’s true; it’s sure to be in the local papers, and in the London ones, too, very likely. I should think it would; the master of a vessel!”
Fraser being in no mood to regard this vanity complacently, went up on deck and declined to have anything to do with the matter. He maintained this attitude of immovable virtue until tea-time, by which time Flower’s entreaties had so won upon him that he was reluctantly compelled to admit that it seemed to be the only thing possible in the circumstances, and more reluctantly still to promise his aid to the most unscrupulous extent possible.
“I’ll write to you when I’m fixed up,” said the skipper, “giving you my new name and address. You’re the only person I shall be able to keep touch with. I shall have to rely upon you for everything. If it wasn’t for you I should be dead to the world.”
“I know what you’ll do as well as possible,” said Fraser; “you’ve got nothing to do for six months, and you’ll be getting into some more engagements.”
“I don’t think you have any call to say that, Jack,” remarked Flower, with some dignity.
“Well, I wish it was well over,” said the mate, despondently. “What are you going to do for money?”
“I drew out £40 to get married with—furniture and things,” said Flower; “that’ll go overboard with me, of course. I’m doing all this for Poppy’s sake more than my own, and I want you to go up and see her every trip, and let me know how she is. She mightn’t care what happened to her if she thinks I’m gone, and she might marry somebody else in desperation.”
“I don’t care about facing her,” said Fraser, bitterly; “it’s a shady business altogether.”
“It’s for her sake,” repeated Flower, calmly, “Take on old Ben as mate, and ship another hand forward.”
The mate ended the subject by going to his bunk and turning in; the skipper, who realised that he himself would have plenty of time for sleep, went on deck and sat silently smoking. Old Ben was at the wheel, and the skipper felt a glow of self-rightousness as he thought of the rise in life he was about to give the poor fellow.
At eight o’clock the mate relieved Ben, and the skipper with a view of keeping up appearances announced his intention of turning in for a bit.
The sun went down behind clouds of smoky red, but the light of the summer evening lasted for some time after. Then darkness came down over the sea, and it was desolate except for the sidelights of distant craft. The mate drew out his watch and by the light of the binnacle-lamp, saw that it was ten minutes to ten. At the same moment he heard somebody moving about forward.
“Who’s that for’ard?” he cried, smartly.
“Me, sir,” answered Joe’s voice. “I’m a bit wakeful, and it’s stiflin’ ‘ot down below.”
The mate hesitated, and then, glancing at the open skylight, saw the skipper, who was standing on the table.
“Send him below,” said the latter, in a sharp whisper.
“You’d better get below, Joe,” said the mate.
“W’y, I ain’t doin’ no ‘arm, sir,” said Joe, in surprise.
“Get below,” said the mate, sharply. “Do you hear?—get below. You’ll be sleeping in your watch if you don’t sleep now.”
The sounds of a carefully modulated grumble came faintly aft, then the mate, leaning away from the wheel to avoid the galley which obstructed his view, saw that his order had been obeyed.
“Now,” said the skipper, quietly, “you must give a perfect scream of horror, mind, and put this on the deck. It fell off as I went over, d’ye see?”
He handed over the slipper he had been wearing, and the mate took it surlily.
“There ought to be a splash,” he murmured. “Joe’s awake.”
The skipper vanished, to reappear a minute or two later with a sack into which he had hastily thrust a few lumps of coal and other rubbish. The mate took it from him, and, placing the slipper on the deck, stood with one hand holding the wheel and the other the ridiculous sack.
“Now,” said the skipper.
The sack went overboard, and, at the same moment, the mate left the wheel with an ear-splitting yell and rushed to the galley for the life-belt which hung there. He crashed heavily into Joe, who had rushed on deck, but, without pausing, ran to the side and flung it overboard.
“Skipper’s overboard,” he yelled, running back and putting the helm down.
Joe put his head down the fore-scuttle and yelled like a maniac; the others came up in their night-gear, and in a marvellously short space of time the schooner was hove to and the cook and Joe had tumbled into the boat and were pulling back lustily in search of the skipper.
Half an hour elapsed, during which those on the schooner hung over the stern listening intently. They could hear the oars in the rowlocks and the shouts of the rowers. Tim lit a lantern and dangled it over the water.
“Have you got ‘im?” cried Ben, as the boat came over the darkness and the light of the lantern shone on the upturned faces of the men.
“No,” said Joe, huskily.
Ben threw him a line, and he clambered silently aboard, followed by the cook.
“Better put about,” he said to the mate, “and cruise about until daylight. We ain’t found the belt either, and it’s just possible he’s got it.”
The mate shook his head. “It’s no good,” he said, confidently; “he’s gone.”
“Well, I vote we try, anyhow,” said Joe, turning on him fiercely. “How did it happen?”
“He came up on deck to speak to me,” said the mate, shortly. “He fancied he heard a cry from the water and jumped up on the side with his hand on the rigging to see. I s’pose his bad foot slipped and he went over before I could move.”
“We’ll cruise about a bit,” said Joe, loudly, turning to the men.
“Are you giving orders here, or am I?” said the mate sternly.
“I am,” said Joe, violently. “It’s our duty to do all we can.” There was a dead silence. Joe, pushing himself in between Ben and the cook, eyed the men eagerly.
“What do you mean by that?” said the mate at last.
“Wot I say,” said Joe, meeting him eye to eye, and thrusting his face close to his.
The mate shrugged his shoulders and walked slowly aft; then, with a regard for appearances which the occasion fully warranted, took the schooner for a little circular tour in the neighbourhood of the skipper’s disappearance.
At daybreak, not feeling the loss quite as much as the men, he went below, and, having looked stealthily round, unlocked the door of the state-room and peeped in. It was almost uncanny, considering the circumstances, to see in the dim light the skipper sitting on the edge of his bunk.
“What the blazes are you doing, dodging about like this?” he burst out, ungratefully.
“Looking for the body,” said the mate. “Ain’t you heard us shouting? It’s not my fault—the crew say they won’t leave the spot while there’s half a chance.”
“Blast the crew,” said the skipper, quite untouched by this devotion. “Ain’t you taking charge o’ the ship?”
“Joe’s about half mad,” said the mate. “It’s wonderful how upset he is.”
The skipper cursed Joe separately, and the mate, whose temper was getting bad, closed the interview by locking the door.
At five o’clock, by which time they had cleared three masses of weed and a barnacle-covered plank, they abandoned the search and resumed the voyage. A gloom settled on the forecastle, and the cook took advantage of the occasion to read Tim a homily upon the shortness of life and the suddenness of death. Tim was much affected, but not nearly so much as he was when he discovered that the men were going to pay a last tribute to the late captain’s memory by abstaining from breakfast. He ventured to remark that the excitement and the night air had made him feel very hungry, and was promptly called an unfeeling little brute by the men for his pains. The mate, who, in deference to public opinion, had to keep up appearances the same way, was almost as much annoyed as Tim, and, as for the drowned man himself, his state of mind was the worst of all. He was so ungrateful that the mate at length lost his temper and when dinner was served allowed a latent sense of humour to have full play.
It consisted of boiled beef, with duff, carrots, and potatoes, and its grateful incense filled the cabin.
The mate attacked it lustily listening between mouthfuls for any interruption from the state-room. At length, unable to endure it any longer, the prisoner ventured to scratch lightly on the door.
“Hist!” said the mate, in a whisper.
The scratching ceased, and the mate, grinning broadly, resumed his dinner. He finished at last, and lighting his pipe sat back easily in the locker watching the door out of the corner of his eye.
With hunger at his vitals the unfortunate skipper, hardly able to believe his ears, heard the cook come down and clear away. The smell of dinner gave way to that of tobacco, and the mate, having half finished his pipe, approached the door.
“Are you there?” he asked, in a whisper.
“Of course I am, you fool!” said the skipper, wrathfully; “where’s my dinner?”