“What d’ye think’s to be done with him?” bawled the skipper. “We can’t chuck him overboard, can we?”
“I mean when we get to Dimport?” growled the mate.
“Well, the men’ll talk,” said the skipper, calming down a little, “and perhaps Sam’s wife’ll come and take him. If not, I suppose he’ll have to go to the workhouse. Anyway, it’s got nothing to do with me. I wash my hands of it altogether.”
He went below again, leaving the mate at the wheel. A murmur of voices came from the forecastle, where the crew were discussing the behaviour of their late colleague. The bereaved Master Jones, whose face was streaky with the tears of disappointment, looked on from his bunk.
“What are you going to do, Billy?” inquired the cook.
“I dunno,” said the boy, miserably.
He sat up in his bunk in a brown study, ever and anon turning his sharp little eyes from one to another of the men. Then, with a final sniff to the memory of his departed parent, he composed himself to sleep.
With the buoyancy of childhood he had forgotten his trouble by the morning, and ran idly about the ship as before, until in the afternoon they came in sight of Dimport. Mr. Legge, who had a considerable respect for the brain hidden in that small head, pointed it out to him, and with some curiosity waited for his remarks.
“I can see it,” said Master Jones, briefly.
“That’s where Sam lives,” said his friend, pointedly.