More Cargoes

“Me?” inquired Bill in astonishment. “Why, I’ve got to stay up here and manage it.”

“Well, we’ll stay up and help you,” said Simpson derisively.

Ned and the cook laughed, Simpson joined in. Bill rose, and going to his bunk, fished out a pack of greasy cards from beneath his bedding.

“Larst cut, sooicide,” he said briefly. “I’m in it.”

He held the pack before the cook. The cook hesitated, and looked at the other two.

“Don’t be a fool, Bill,” said Simpson.

“Why, do you funk it?” sneered Bill.

“It’s a fool’s game, I tell you,” said Simpson.

“Well, you ‘elped me start it,” said the other. “You’re afraid, that’s what you are, afraid. You can let the boy go down there, but when it comes to yourselves you turn chicken-’arted.”

“All right,” said Simpson recklessly, “let Bill ‘ave ‘is way; out, cookie.”

Sorely against his better sense the cook complied, and drew a ten; Ned, after much argument, cut and drew seven; Simpson, with a king in his fist, leaned back on the locker and fingered his beard nonchalantly. “Go on, Bill,” he said, “see what you can do.”

Bill took the pack and shuffled it. “I orter be able to beat seven,” he said slowly. He handed the pack to Ned, drew a card, and the other three sat back and laughed boisterously.

“Three!” said Simpson. “Bravo, Bill! Ill write your letter for you; he’d know your writing. What shall I say?”

“Say what you like,” retorted Bill, breathing hard as he thought of the hold.

He sat back, sneering disdainfully, as the other three merrily sat down to compose his letter, replying only by a contemptuous silence when Simpson asked him whether he wanted any kisses put in. When the letter was handed over for his inspection he only made one remark.

“I thought you could write better than that, George,” he said haughtily.

“I’m writing it for you,” said Simpson.

Bill’s hauteur vanished, and he became his old self again. “If you want a plug in the eye, George,” he said feelingly, “you’ve only got to say so, you know.”

His temper was so unpleasant that half the pleasure of the evening was spoiled, and instead of being conducted to his hiding-place with quips and light laughter, the proceedings were more like a funeral than anything else. The crowning touch to his ill-nature was furnished by Tommy, who upon coming up and learning that Bill was to be his room-mate, gave way to a fit of the most unfeigned horror.

“There’s another letter for you this morning,” said the mate, as the skipper came out of his state-room buttoning up his waistcoat.

“Another what?” demanded the other, turning pale.

The mate jerked his thumb upwards. “Old Ned has got it,” he continued, “I can’t think what’s come over the men.”

The skipper dashed up on deck, and mechanically took the letter from Ned and read it through. He stood for some time like a man in a dream, and then stumbled down the foc’sle, and looked in all the bunks and even under the table, then he came up and stood by the hold with his head on one side. The men held their breath.

“What’s the meaning of all this?” he demanded at length, sitting limply on the hatch, with his eyes down.

“Bad grub, sir,” said Simpson, gaining courage from his manner; “that’s what we’ll have to say when we get ashore.”

“You’re not to say a word about it?” said the other, firing up.

“It’s our dooty, sir,” said Ned impressively.

“Look here now,” said the skipper, and he looked at the remaining members of the crew entreatingly. “Don’t let’s have no more suicides. The old meat’s gone now, and you can start the other, and when we get to port I’ll ship in some fresh butter and vegetables. But I don’t want you to say anything about the food being bad, or about these letters when we get to port. I shall simply say the two of ‘em disappeared, an’ I want you to say the same.”

“It can’t be done, sir,” said Simpson, firmly.

The skipper rose and walked to the side. “Would a fi’pun note make any difference?” he asked in a low voice.

“It ‘ud make a little difference,” said Ned cautiously.

The skipper looked up at Simpson. On the face of Simpson was an expression of virtuous arithmetical determination.

The skipper looked down again. “Or a fi’pun note each?” he said, in a low voice. “I can’t go beyond that.”

“Call it twenty pun and it’s a bargain, ain’t it, mates?” said Simpson.

Ned said it was, and even the cook forgot his nervousness, and said it was evident the skipper must do the generous thing, and they’d stand by him.

“Where’s the money coming from?” inquired the mate as the skipper went down to breakfast, and discussed the matter with him. “They wouldn’t get nothing out of me!”

The skylight was open; the skipper with a glance at it bent forward and whispered in his ear.

“Wot!” said the mate. He endeavoured to suppress his laughter with hot coffee and bacon, with the result that he had to rise from his seat, and stand patiently while the skipper dealt him some hearty thumps on the back.

With the prospect of riches before them the men cheerfully faced the extra work; the cook did the boy’s, while Ned and Simpson did Bill’s between them. When night came they removed the hatch again, and with a little curiosity waited to hear how their victims were progressing.

“Where’s my dinner?” growled Bill hungrily, as he drew himself up on deck.

“Dinner!” said Ned, in surprise; “why, you ain’t got none.”

“Wot?” said Bill ferociously.

“You see the skipper only serves out for three now,” said the cook.

“Well, why didn’t you save us some?” demanded the other.

“There ain’t enough of it, Bill, there ain’t in-deed,” said Ned. “We have to do more work now, and there ain’t enough even for us. You’ve got biscuit and water, haven’t you?”

Bill swore at him.

“I ‘ve ‘ad enough o’ this,” he said fiercely. “I’m coming up, let the old man do what he likes. I don’t care.”

“Don’t do that, Bill,” said the old man persuasively. “Everything’s going beautiful. You was quite right what you said about the old man. We was wrong. He’s skeered fearful, and he’s going to give us twenty pun to say nothing about it when we get ashore.”

“I’m going to have ten out o’ that,” said Bill, brightening a little, “and it’s worth it too, I get the ‘orrors shut up down there all day.”

“Ay, ay,” said Ned, with a side kick at the cook, who was about to question Bill’s method of division.