"Is it?" grunted Smith. "I'll swear it wasn't there a fortnight ago. Anyway, I don't want to get into trouble about it in case we have to put into a German port. Heave the blessed thing overboard."
"Not much!" replied Stirling, quietly but firmly.
Smith looked at his companion with surprise depicted on his features. Stirling was generally of a complaisant disposition.
"Why not, you silly cuckoo? That will be enough to get us five years in a fortress, like my sixty-ninth cousins, John and Bill Smith. I'm not taking any, thank you."
"All the same, I don't think I'll throw it overboard. I've got to go ashore for more steak; we can't possibly eat that stuff—it's smothered with salt water. I'll pack up the book and send it to my address by registered post."
"Please yourself," retorted Smith ungraciously. "So long as it isn't on board I don't mind, but I'm hanged if I can see what possible use it can be to you."
"Never know your luck," replied Stirling as he backed into the cabin. "I wonder if there's any brown paper on board."
"Why not dry the blessed thing first?" asked Smith, always more thoughtful for others' pockets than he was for his own. "It won't cost so much for postage."
"Not a bad idea," was the reply. "I'll hang it up under the skylight. That's it. Now for the shore."
Presently Stirling returned with a fresh supply of steak. Once more the stove was lighted, and without further mishap the meat was served.