“I thought you would ’ave, Joe,” said the vengeful cook, retiring behind a huge frying-pan, “when I ’eard you singing this morning.”
Fraser, coming on deck, was just in time to see a really creditable imitation of a famous sculpture as represented by Joe, Tim, and Ben, but his criticism was so sharp and destructive that the group at once broke and never re-formed. Indeed, with a common foe in the person of Ben, the crew adjusted their own differences, and by the time Seabridge was in sight were united by all the fearful obligations of a secret society of which Joe was the perpetual president.
Captain Barber, with as much mourning as he could muster at such short notice, was waiting on the quay. His weather-beaten face was not quite so ruddy as usual, and Fraser, with a strong sense of shame, fancied, as the old man clambered aboard the schooner, that his movements were slower than of yore.
“This is a dreadful business, Jack,” he said, giving him a hearty grip, when at length he stood aboard the schooner.
“Shocking,” said Fraser, reddening.
“I’ve spoken to have the coast-guards look out for him,” said the old man. “He may come ashore, and I know he’d be pleased to be put in the churchyard decent.”
“I’m sure he would,” said Fraser. “I suppose there’s no chance of his having been picked up. I slung a life-belt overboard.”
Captain Barber shook his head. “It’s a mysterious thing,” he said slowly; “a man who’d been at sea all his life to go and tumble overboard in calm weather like that.”
“There’s a lot that’s mysterious about it, sir,” said Joe, who had drawn near, followed by the others. “I can say that, because I was on deck only a few minutes before it happened.”
“Pity you didn’t stay up,” said Captain Barber, ruefully.