The old man started, and hurriedly ascended to the deck. He was absent two or three minutes, and, when he returned, consternation was writ large upon his face.
“He’s gone,” he spluttered; “there ain’t a sign of ’im about, and the life-belt wot hangs on the galley ’as gone too. Wot am I to do?”
“Well, they was very old cloes,” said Bill, soothingly, “an’ you ain’t a bad figger, not for your time o’ life, Thomas.”
“There’s many a wooden-legged man ’ud be glad to change with you,” affirmed Ted, who had been roused by the noise. “You’ll soon get over the feeling o’ shyness, Thomas.”
The forecastle laughed encouragingly, and Thomas, who had begun to realise the position, joined in. He laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks, and his excitement began to alarm his friends.
“Don’t be a fool, Thomas,” said Bob, anxiously.
“I can’t help it,” said the old man, struggling hysterically; “it’s the best joke I’ve heard.”
“He’s gone dotty,” said Ted, solemnly. “I never ’eard of a man larfing like that a ’cos he’d lorst ’is cloes.”
“I’m not larfing at that,” said Thomas, regaining his composure by a great effort. “I’m larfing at a joke wot you don’t know of yet.”
A deadly chill struck at the hearts of the listeners at these words, then Bill, after a glance at the foot of his bunk, where he usually kept his clothes, sprang out and began a hopeless search. The other men followed suit, and the air rang with lamentations and profanity. Even the spare suits in the men’s chests had gone; and Bill, a prey to acute despair, sat down, and in a striking passage consigned the entire British Army to perdition.