Part 28 (1/2)

”The dog's as clean as you are,” said the skipper. ”I'd sooner eat after him than you.”

”Well, you eat it then, sir,” said Bates desperately. ”If it's poisoned you'll die, and I'll be hung for it. I can't say no fairer than that, can I?”

There was a slight murmur from the men, who stood by watching the skipper with an air of unholy expectancy.

”Well, the boy shall eat it then,” said the skipper, ”Eat that bloater, boy, and I'll give you sixpence.”

The boy came forward slowly, and looking from the men to the skipper, and from the skipper back to the men, began to whimper.

”If you think it's poisoned,” interrupted the mate, ”you oughtn't to make the boy eat it. I don't like boys, but you must draw the line somewhere.”

”It's poisoned,” said the skipper, shaking it at Bates, ”and they know it. Well, I'll keep it till we get to port, and then I'll have it a.n.a.lysed. And it'll be a sorry day for you, Bates, when I hear it's poisoned. A month's hard labour is what you'll get.”

He turned away and went below with as much dignity as could be expected of a man carrying a mangled herring, and placing it on a clean plate, solemnly locked it up in his state-room.

For two days the crew heard no more about it, though the skipper's eyes gleamed dangerously each time that they fell upon the shrinking Bates.

The weather was almost tropical, with not an air stirring, and the _Arethusa_, bearing its dread secret still locked in its state-room, rose and fell upon a sea of gla.s.sy smoothness without making any progress worth recording.

”I wish you'd keep that thing in your berth, George,” said the skipper, as they sat at tea the second evening; ”it puts me in a pa.s.sion every time I look at it.”

”I couldn't think of it, cap'n,” replied the mate firmly; ”it makes me angry enough as it is. Every time I think of 'em trying to poison that poor dumb creature I sort o' choke. I try to forget it.”

The skipper, eyeing him furtively, helped himself to another cup of tea.

”You haven't got a tin box with a lid to it, I s'pose?” he remarked somewhat shamefacedly.

The mate shook his head. ”I looked for one this morning,” he said.

”There ain't so much as a bottle aboard we could shove it into, and it wants shoving into something--bad, it does.”

”I don't like to be beat,” said the skipper, shaking his head. ”All them grinning monkeys for'ard 'ud think it a rare good joke. I'd throw it overboard if it wasn't for that. We can't keep it this weather.”

”Well, look 'ere; 'ere's a way out of it,” said the mate. ”Call Joe down, and make him keep it in the fo'c's'le and take care of it.”

”Why, you idiot, he'd lose it!” rapped out the other impatiently.

”O' course he would,” said the mate; ”but that's the most dignerified way out of it for you. You can call 'im all sorts of things, and abuse 'im for the rest of his life. They'll prove themselves guilty by chucking it away, won't they?”

It really seemed the only thing to be done. The skipper finished his tea in silence, and then going on deck called the crew aft and apprised them of his intentions, threatening them with all sorts of pains and penalties if the treasure about to be confided to their keeping should be lost. The cook was sent below for it, and, at the skipper's bidding, handed it to the grinning Joe.

”And mind,” said the skipper as he turned away, ”I leave it in your keepin', and if it's missing I shall understand that you've made away with it, and I shall take it as a sign of guilt, and act according.”

The end came sooner even than he expected. They were at breakfast next morning when Joe, looking somewhat pale, came down to the cabin, followed by Clark, bearing before him an empty plate.

”Well?” said the skipper fiercely.

”It's about the 'erring, sir,” said Joe, twisting his cap between his hands.