“Done all ye could?” said Joe, derisively, “why you ain’t done nothin’ yet.”
“I can’t say anything more,” said Tim. “I dassent. I ain’t got your pluck, Joe.”
“Pluck be damned!” said the seaman, fiercely; “why there was a chap I knew once, shipwrecked he was, and had to take to the boats. When the grub give out they drew lots to see who should be killed and eaten. He lost. Did ’e back out of it? Not a bit of it; ’e was a man, an’ ’e shook ’ands with ’em afore they ate ’im and wished ’em luck.”
“Well, you can kill and eat me if that’s what you want,” said Tim, desperately. “I’d sooner ’ave that.”
“Mind you,” said Joe, “till you’ve arsked them questions and been answered satisfactorily—none of us’ll ’ave anything to do with you, besides which I’ll give you such a licking as you’ve never ’ad before.”
He strolled off with Ben and the cook, as the skipper came towards them again, and sat down in the bows. Tim, sore afraid of his shipmates’ contempt, tried again.
“I wanted to ask your pardon in case I done wrong last night, sir,” he said, humbly.
“All right, it’s granted,” replied the other, walking away.
Tim raised his eyes to heaven, and then lowering them, looked even more beseechingly at his comrades.
“Go on,” said Ben, shaping the words only with his mouth.