Part 24

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 anybody 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.