"I'll go at once," said the cook, with a little feeling, "and I'll never
take a man at his word again, Jem."
He ran blithely up on deck, and stepping ashore, spat on the coins for
luck and dropped them in his pocket. Down below, Mr. Lister, with his
chin in his hand, sat in a state of mind pretty evenly divided between
rage and fear.
The cook, who was in no mood for company, missed the rest of the crew by
two public-houses, and having purchased a baby's teething powder and
removed the label, had a congratulatory drink or two before going on
board again. A chatter of voices from the forecastle warned him that the
crew had returned, but the tongues ceased abruptly as he descended, and
three pairs of eyes surveyed him in grim silence.
"What's up?" he demanded.
"Wot 'ave you been doin' to poor old Jem?" demanded Henshaw, sternly.
"Nothin'," said the other, shortly.
"You ain't been p'isoning 'im?" demanded Henshaw.
"Certainly not," said the cook, emphatically.
"He ses you told 'im you p'isoned 'im," said Henshaw, solemnly, "and 'e
give you two shillings to get something to cure 'im. It's too late now."
"What?" stammered the bewildered cook. He looked round anxiously at the
men.
They were all very grave, and the silence became oppressive.
"Where is he?" he demanded.
Henshaw and the others exchanged glances. "He's gone mad," said he,
slowly.
"Mad?" repeated the horrified cook, and, seeing the aversion of the crew,
in a broken voice he narrated the way in which he had been victimized.
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