“I don’t know, an’ that’s a fact,” said the skipper. “They’ve both got money coming to ’em; when I’m in Wales I like Mary Jones best, and when I’m in London it’s Janey Cooper. It’s dreadful to be like that, Bill.”
“It is,” said the mate drily. “I wouldn’t be in your shoes when those two gals meet for a fortune. Then you’ll have old Jones and her brothers to tackle, too. Seems to me things’ll be a bit lively.”
“I hev thought of being took sick, and staying in my bunk, Bill,” suggested Evans anxiously.
“An’ having the two of ’em to nurse you,” retorted Bill. “Nice quiet time for an invalid.”
Evans made a gesture of despair.
“How would it be,” said the mate, after a long pause, and speaking very slowly; “how would it be if I took this one off your hands.”
“You couldn’t do it, Bill,” said the skipper decidedly. “Not while she knew I was above ground.”
“Well, I can try,” returned the mate shortly. “I’ve took rather a fancy to the girl. Is it a bargain?”
“It is,” said the skipper, shaking hands upon it. “If you git me out of this hole, Bill, I’ll remember it the longest day I live.”
With these words he went below, and, after cautiously undoing W. H. Cooper, who had slept himself into a knot that a professional contortionist would have envied, tumbled in beside him and went to sleep.