“I don’t like the plan,” said the doctor. “It may end in a mistake, and we don’t want to be hoist with our own petard.”
“Hang it, no!” cried Mr Brymer. “All right then, we will not eat the soup.”
“But why shouldn’t I take my drug—it will only be a small portion of a white powder—and drop it into the soup when it is ready?”
“Because there would certainly be some hitch in the proceedings to hinder you getting it in. Besides, we don’t want the cook to be in the secret.”
“Very well then,” said the doctor, “I suppose that must be the plan. I’ll go and get the drug ready at once, and bring it here. But one minute; how many men are there in the forecastle?—because I must reckon accordingly.”
“Say sixteen. You must give them a pretty good dose.”
“Yes; but not strong enough to be risky,” said Mr Frewen; and he signed to me to go with him to his cabin, where he opened his medicine-chest, and after a little thought, carefully weighed out, from a stoppered bottle, an absurdly small portion of a whitish powder and placed it in a square of white paper.
“There,” he said, “take that to Mr Brymer, and tell him to give it a good stir round, or we shall be killing some of the scoundrels, and letting others off scot free.”
“Yes,” I said, looking with no little interest at the powder which he had turned out of the tiny scales he had used. “The cook is sure to stir it well too. But, Mr Frewen, will that little pinch or two of stuff be enough?”
“Plenty,” he said. “It is as far as I dare go, for it is most potent.”