“Eh,” said the skipper.
“He was a bad ’usband to me,” she continued, still in the same sobbing whisper, “but I’ll ’ave ’im put away decent.”
“You’d better let us bury him,” said the skipper. “We can do it cheaper than you can, perhaps?”
“No. I’ll send for him this evening,” said the lady. “Are they ’is clothes?”
“The last he ever wore,” said the skipper pathetically, pointing to the heap of clothing. “There’s his chest, poor chap, just as he left it.”
The bereaved widow bent down, and, raising the lid, shook her head tearfully as she regarded the contents. Then she gathered up the clothes under her left arm, and, still sobbing, took his watch, his knife, and some small change from his chest while the crew in dumb show inquired of the deceased, who was regarding her over the edge of the bunk, what was to be done.
“I suppose there was some money due to him?” she inquired, turning to the skipper.
“Matter of a few shillings,” he stammered.
“I’ll take them,” she said, holding out her hand.
The skipper put his hand in his pocket, and, in his turn, looked inquiringly at the late lamented for guidance; but George had closed his eyes again to the world, and, after a moment’s hesitation, he slowly counted the money into her hand.