He came on deck and looked round, followed at a respectful distance by the crew, but there was no sign of Mr. Bliss.
Then an idea, a horrid idea, occurred to the cook. The colour left his cheeks and he gazed helplessly at the skipper.
“What is it?” bawled the latter.
The cook, incapable of speech, raised a trembling hand and pointed to the galley. The skipper started, and, rushing to the door, drew it hastily back.
Mr. Bliss had apparently finished, though he still toyed languidly with his knife and fork as though loath to put them down. A half-emptied saucepan of potatoes stood on the floor by his side, and a bone, with a small fragment of meat adhering, was between his legs on a saucepan lid which served as a dish.
“Rather underdone, cook,” he said, severely, as he met that worthy’s horror-stricken gaze.
“Is that the cabin’s or the men’s he’s eaten?” vociferated the skipper.
“Cabin’s,” replied Mr. Bliss, before the cook could speak; “it looked the best. Now, has anybody got a nice see-gar?”
He drew back the door the other side of the galley as he spoke, and went out that way. A move was made towards him, but he backed, and picking up a handspike swung it round his head.
“Let him be,” said the skipper in a choking voice, “let him be. He’ll have to answer for stealing my dinner when I get ’im ashore. Cook, take the men’s dinner down into the cabin. I’ll talk to you by and by.”