“Well,” said George, his spirits already improved by the news of Parham, “what of it?”
“Whoy,” said the unhappy scullion, “Whoy, yer cuddenever empty that tin—they’ll foind me aht!” he said, and began to sniffle. “Wort are yer to empty it wiv, yer fool? Yer eyn’t got a spoon!”
“Say I licked it,” said George with attempted humour.
“They’d blieve ut of yer,” said the boy viciously, “ye’re nothin but a woilbeast! Gettin us all inter trouble!” He sniffled. “Ye’re a curse on th’ ship, that’s wort you are, an I blieve she’ll founder. I blieve she’ll stroike in th’ noight and go to Ell. You’ll be drahwnded, anyow!” he viciously added as he restrained his tears in prospect of the wrath to come.
But the thought of safety which the mention of Parham had brought revived George, and he bore no ill-will. “Look here,” he said, “I’ll swab it out with my bread and they’ll think I cleaned it up, but it’s on condition that you chuck the bread overboard,” he added.
The boy accepted the pact and was comforted. It was a cheap act of kindness, but he hoped it might stand him in good stead a few hours later.
The June night fell gradually upon the sea, the slight swell dropped to something almost imperceptible. Through his miserable porthole George could see great sheets of moonlight playing upon the easy surface, and there was no noise but the regular thud of the engine.
He fell into a profound sleep.