Part 32 (1/2)

”He was a bad 'usband to me,” she continued, still in the same sobbing whisper, ”but I'll 'ave 'im put away decent.”

”You'd better let us bury him,” said the skipper. ”We can do it cheaper than you can, perhaps?”

”No. I'll send for him this evening,” said the lady. ”Are they 'is clothes?”

”The last he ever wore,” said the skipper pathetically, pointing to the heap of clothing. ”There's his chest, poor chap, just as he left it.”

The bereaved widow bent down, and, raising the lid, shook her head tearfully as she regarded the contents. Then she gathered up the clothes under her left arm, and, still sobbing, took his watch, his knife, and some small change from his chest while the crew in dumb show inquired of the deceased, who was regarding her over the edge of the bunk, what was to be done.

”I suppose there was some money due to him?” she inquired, turning to the skipper.

”Matter of a few s.h.i.+llings,” he stammered.

”I'll take them,” she said, holding out her hand.

The skipper put his hand in his pocket, and, in his turn, looked inquiringly at the late lamented for guidance; but George had closed his eyes again to the world, and, after a moment's hesitation, he slowly counted the money into her hand.

She dropped the coins into her pocket, and, with a parting glance at the motionless figure in the bunk, turned away. The procession made its way on deck again, but not in the same order, the cook carefully bringing up the rear.

”If there's any other little things,” she said, pausing at the side to get a firmer grip of the clothes under her arm.

”You shall have them,” said the skipper, who had been making mental arrangements to have George buried before her return.

Apparently much comforted by this a.s.surance, she allowed herself to be lowered into the boat, which was waiting. The excitement of the crew of the brig, who had been watching her movements with eager interest, got beyond the bounds of all decency as they saw her being pulled ash.o.r.e with the clothes in her lap.

”You can come up now,” said the skipper, as he caught sight of George's face at the scuttle.

”Has she gone?” inquired the seaman anxiously.

The skipper nodded, and a wild cheer rose from the crew of the brig as George came on deck in his scanty garments, and, from behind the others, peered cautiously over the side.

”Where is she?” he demanded.

The skipper pointed to the boat.

”That?” said George, starting. ”That? That ain't my wife.”

”Not your wife?” said the skipper, staring. ”Whose is she, then?”

”How the devil should I know,” said George, throwing discipline to the winds in his agitation. ”It ain't my wife.”

”P'r'aps it's one you've forgotten,” suggested the skipper in a low voice.

George looked at him and choked. ”I've never seen her before,” he replied, ”s'elp me. Call her back. Stop her.”

The mate rushed aft and began to haul in the s.h.i.+p's boat, but George caught him suddenly by the arm.

”Never mind,” he said bitterly; ”better let her go. She seems to know too much for me. _Somebody's_ been talking to her.”