This he did, after a thorough search in his rat form to find what seemed a safe, hidden place high at the top of a pile of the loot stolen from the merchantman. There the exhausted boy, curled closely against any sudden movement of the ship, fell into a sound sleep.
The dip and sway of a sailing ship cutting the seas, and a ravenous appetite, combined to wake Chris. For the first few moments he was confused at where he was. Little or no light seeped into the hold, and he was further troubled by having no idea how long he might have slept.
His first thought was to find food. Climbing down from his sleeping place he felt his way back to the ladder leading up to the deck. The hatch at the top of the ladder was open and through it came a long faded shaft of light and a freshening draught of air. By the quality of the light, Chris judged the time to be well along in the afternoon. He was debating with himself whether or not to change his shape and venture up to find something to eat, when on one of the lower treads of the plank ladder he caught sight of a plate of food.
Chris stood staring at it for a moment. His mouth watered, for he had not eaten in many hours and the sight of meat, bread, and fruit was almost more than he could resist. But resist it he did, for he argued in himself: If this has been put here, it must be for me. If it is for me, it may well be poisoned. I shall not be tempted, much as Claggett Chew would like me to be! He therefore left the plate of food where it was, hoping the rats would find it before long and he would have proof, through their actions, whether or not his theory was right. Then, as a shadow fell over the hatch far above his head, Chris hastily became a fly, soaring up to hit Simon Gosler on the nose.
Crawling in a leisurely fashion on the beggar's hump, he lingered long enough to see what the cripple was about. Simon was looking down the steep ladder, shading his rheumy eyes against the brilliance of the setting sun with one filthy, crooked hand. Chris, crawling nearer, could make out what the old man was muttering under his breath.
"The Cap'n, he say go down an' see, is the food et up, sez he. But 'tis a weary hard way for a pore ol' cripple to hop down thet steep ladder. I'll not do it. He's a sick and fevered man. I shall say it was et up—the rats will have got it before I get to his cabin, in any case, an' then who's to be the wiser? Besides, there's no boy on this ship. What a fancy!" he muttered. "He is an ill man, is Claggett Chew. May his bones rot! I need do no more for him than what I have a mind to, knowing as many of his misdeeds as I do. Hah!" He rubbed his hands with anticipation. "Any day, Simon Gosler could be Cap'n of the good Vulture, an he say the word to the right quarter!" His eyes, no longer hidden behind black patches, narrowed with cunning. "And in the meantime, who gets the best share of the spoils?"
The beggar broke off in a cackle of glee, rubbing his dirty gnarled hands with satisfaction, and turned away to go back to the Captain's cabin with his message.
Chris flew away in the direction of the cook's galley, where as a fly he found it easy enough to eat his fill of meat and what few good things the Vulture afforded.
Refreshed, he flew hard against the wind in order not to be blown off the ship entirely, up to the safety of a part of the rigging from where he could ponder on what he had heard, and see whatever there was to be seen.