“What do ye take any notice of 'em for?” inquired the other, indignantly.
“I 'spose it is foolish,” admitted Mr. Lister; “but I don't like being misunderstood. I keep my troubles to myself as a rule, cook. I don't know what's made me talk to you like this. I 'eard the other day you was keeping company with a young woman.”
“Well, I won't say as I ain't,” replied the other, busying himself over the fire.
“An' the best thing, too, my lad,” said the old man, warmly. “It keeps you stiddy, keeps you out of public-'ouses; not as they ain't good in moderation—I 'ope you'll be 'appy.”
A friendship sprang up between the two men which puzzled the remainder of the crew not a little.
The cook thanked him, and noticed that Mr. Lister was fidgeting with a piece of paper.
“A little something I wrote the other day,” said the old man, catching his eye. “If I let you see it, will you promise not to tell a soul about it, and not to give me no thanks?”
The wondering cook promised, and, the old man being somewhat emphatic on the subject, backed his promise with a home made affidavit of singular power and profanity.
“Here it is, then,” said Mr. Lister.
The cook took the paper, and as he read the letters danced before him. He blinked his eyes and started again, slowly. In plain black and white and nondescript-coloured finger-marks, Mr. Lister, after a general statement as to his bodily and mental health, left the whole of his estate to the cook. The will was properly dated and witnessed, and the cook's voice shook with excitement and emotion as he offered to hand it back.