Mr. Lister's face was a study in emotions, which the other tried in vain to decipher.
Then he slowly extracted the amount from his trousers-pocket, and handed it over with-out a word.
“I'll go at once,” said the cook, with a little feeling, “and I'll never take a man at his word again, Jem.”
He ran blithely up on deck, and stepping ashore, spat on the coins for luck and dropped them in his pocket. Down below, Mr. Lister, with his chin in his hand, sat in a state of mind pretty evenly divided between rage and fear.
The cook, who was in no mood for company, missed the rest of the crew by two public-houses, and having purchased a baby's teething powder and removed the label, had a congratulatory drink or two before going on board again. A chatter of voices from the forecastle warned him that the crew had returned, but the tongues ceased abruptly as he descended, and three pairs of eyes surveyed him in grim silence.
“What's up?” he demanded.
“Wot 'ave you been doin' to poor old Jem?” demanded Henshaw, sternly.
“Nothin',” said the other, shortly.
“You ain't been p'isoning 'im?” demanded Henshaw.
“Certainly not,” said the cook, emphatically.