She dropped the coins into her pocket, and, with a parting glance at the motionless figure in the bunk, turned away. The procession made its way on deck again, but not in the same order, the cook carefully bringing up the rear.
“If there’s any other little things,” she said, pausing at the side to get a firmer grip of the clothes under her arm.
“You shall have them,” said the skipper, who had been making mental arrangements to have George buried before her return.
Apparently much comforted by this assurance, she allowed herself to be lowered into the boat, which was waiting. The excitement of the crew of the brig, who had been watching her movements with eager interest, got beyond the bounds of all decency as they saw her being pulled ashore with the clothes in her lap.
“You can come up now,” said the skipper, as he caught sight of George’s face at the scuttle.
“Has she gone?” inquired the seaman anxiously.
The skipper nodded, and a wild cheer rose from the crew of the brig as George came on deck in his scanty garments, and, from behind the others, peered cautiously over the side.
“Where is she?” he demanded.
The skipper pointed to the boat.
“That?” said George, starting. “That? That ain’t my wife.”