“Well, I won’t stop you chaps at your grub,” said Private Bliss, bitterly, as he turned to depart.
“You’re not stopping us,” said Ted, cheerfully. “I’d offer you a bit, only—”
“Only what?” demanded the other.
“Skipper’s orders,” said Ted. “He ses we’re not to. He ses if we do it’s helping a deserter, and we’ll all get six months.”
“But you’re helping me by having me on board,” said Private Bliss; “besides, I don’t want to desert.”
“We couldn’t ’elp you coming aboard,” said Bill, “that’s wot the old man said, but ’e ses we can ’elp giving of him vittles, he ses.”
“Well, have I got to starve?” demanded the horror-stricken Mr. Bliss.
“Look ’ere,” said Bill, frankly, “go and speak to the old man. It’s no good talking to us. Go and have it out with him.”
Private Bliss thanked him and went on deck. Old Thomas was at the wheel, and a pleasant clatter of knives and forks came up through the open skylight of the cabin. Ignoring the old man, who waved him away, he raised the open skylight still higher, and thrust his head in.
“Go away,” bawled the skipper, pausing with his knife in his fist as he caught sight of him.