“Pat ’er ’ands,” said another.
“Pat ’em yourself,” said the cook brusquely, as he looked up and saw the delight of the crew of the Endeavour, who were leaning over their vessel’s side regarding the proceedings with much interest.
“Don’t leave go of me,” said the newly-made widow, as she swallowed the whisky, and rose to her feet.
“Stand by her, cook,” said the skipper authoritatively.
“Ay, ay, sir,” said the cook.
They formed a procession below, the skipper and mate leading; the cook with his fair burden, choking her sobs with a handkerchief, and the crew following.
“What did he die of?” she asked in a whisper broken with sobs.
“Chill from the water,” whispered the skipper in response.
“I can’t see ’im,” she whispered. “It’s so dark here. Has anybody got a match? Oh! here’s some.”
Before anybody could interfere she took a box from a locker, and, striking one, bent over the motionless George, and gazed at his tightly-closed eyes and open mouth in silence.