Part 15 (1/2)

”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 col-league 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 b.u.t.ter 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.”