For the next two days the wind was against them, and they made but little progress. Mrs. Harbolt spent most of her time on deck, thereby confining her husband to his evil-smelling quarters below. Matters were not improved for him by his treatment of the crew, who, resenting his rough treatment of them, were doing their best to starve him into civility. Most of the time he kept in his bunk—or rather Jemmy’s bunk—a prey to despondency and hunger of an acute type, venturing on deck only at night to prowl uneasily about and bemoan his condition.
On the third night Mrs. Harbolt was later in retiring than usual, and it was nearly midnight before the skipper, who had been indignantly waiting for her to go, was able to get on deck and hold counsel with the mate.
“I’ve done what I could for you,” said the latter, fishing a crust from his pocket, which Harbolt took thankfully. “I’ve told her all the yarns I could think of about people turning up after they was buried and the like.”
“What’d she say?” queried the skipper eagerly, between his bites.
“Told me not to talk like that,” said the mate; “said it showed a want o’ trust in Providence to hint at such things. Then I told her what you asked me about the locket, only I made it a bracelet worth ten pounds.”
“That pleased her?” suggested the other hopefully.
The mate shook his head. “She said I was a born fool to believe you’d been robbed of it,” he replied. “She said what you’d done was to give it to one o’ them pore females. She’s been going on frightful about it all the afternoon—won’t talk o’ nothing else.”
“I don’t know what’s to be done,” groaned the skipper despondently. “I shall be dead afore we get to port this wind holds. Go down and get me something to eat George; I’m starving.”
“Everything’s locked up, as I told you afore,” said the mate.
“As the master of this ship,” said the skipper, drawing himself up, “I order you to go down and get me something to eat. You can tell the missus it’s for you if she says anything.”