“I've never been one to talk over my affairs,” said Mr. Lister, in a low voice. “I've never yet took fancy enough to anybody so to do. No, my lad, I'm saving up for somebody else.”
“What are you going to live on when you're past work then?” demanded the other.
Mr. Lister took him gently by the sleeve, and his voice sank with the solemnity of his subject: “I'm not going to have no old age,” he said, resignedly.
“Not going to live!” repeated the cook, gazing uneasily at a knife by his side. “How do you know?”
“I went to a orsepittle in London,” said Mr. Lister. “I've been to two or three altogether, while the money I've spent on doctors is more than I like to think of, and they're all surprised to think that I've lived so long. I'm so chock-full o' complaints, that they tell me I can't live more than two years, and I might go off at any moment.”
“Well, you've got money,” said the cook, “why don't you knock off work now and spend the evenin' of your life ashore? Why should you save up for your relatives?”
“I've got no relatives,” said Mr. Lister; “I'm all alone. I 'spose I shall leave my money to some nice young feller, and I hope it'll do 'im good.”
With the dazzling thoughts which flashed through the cook's brain the cabbage dropped violently into the saucepan, and a shower of cooling drops fell on both men.
“I 'spose you take medicine?” he said, at length.
“A little rum,” said Mr. Lister, faintly; “the doctors tell me that it is the only thing that keeps me up—o' course, the chaps down there “—he indicated the forecastle again with a jerk of his head—“accuse me o' taking too much.”