"A little rum," said Mr. Lister, faintly; "the doctors tell me that it is
the only thing that keeps me up--o' course, the chaps down there "--he
indicated the forecastle again with a jerk of his head--"accuse me o'
taking too much."
"What do ye take any notice of 'em for?" inquired the other, indignantly.
"I 'spose it is foolish," admitted Mr. Lister; "but I don't like being
misunderstood. I keep my troubles to myself as a rule, cook. I don't
know what's made me talk to you like this. I 'eard the other day you was
keeping company with a young woman."
"Well, I won't say as I ain't," replied the other, busying himself over
the fire.
"An' the best thing, too, my lad," said the old man, warmly. "It keeps
you stiddy, keeps you out of public-'ouses; not as they ain't good in
moderation--I 'ope you'll be 'appy."
A friendship sprang up between the two men which puzzled the remainder
of the crew not a little.
The cook thanked him, and noticed that Mr. Lister was fidgeting with a
piece of paper.
"A little something I wrote the other day," said the old man, catching
his eye. "If I let you see it, will you promise not to tell a soul about
it, and not to give me no thanks?"
The wondering cook promised, and, the old man being somewhat emphatic on
the subject, backed his promise with a home made affidavit of singular
power and profanity.
"Here it is, then," said Mr. Lister.
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