Part 23

“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 stateroom 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 stateroom 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.”