“Let ’em hang out then,” said Harry savagely, wiping a little mud from his face. “Fancy that coming in for a fortin.”
“’E won’t ’ave it long,” said the cook, shaking his head.
“Wot ’e wants is a shock,” said Harry. “’Ow’d it be when he wakes up to tell ’im he’s lost all ’is money?”
“Wot’s the good o’ telling ’im,” demanded the cook, “when ’e’s got it in his pocket?”
“Well, let’s take it out,” said Pilchard. “I’ll hide it under my piller, and let him think he’s ’ad his pocket picked.”
“I won’t ’ave nothing to do with it,” said Steve peremptorily. “I don’t believe in sich games.”
“Wot do you think, cook?” inquired Harry.
“I don’t see no ’arm in it,” said the cook slowly, “the fright might do ’im good, p’raps.”
“It might be the saving of ’im,” said Harry. He leaned over the sleeping seaman, and, gently inserting his fingers in his breast-pocket, drew out the canvas bag. “There it is, chaps,” he said gayly; “an’ I’ll give ’im sich a fright in the morning as he won’t forget in a ’urry.”
He retired to his bunk, and placing the bag under his pillow, was soon fast asleep. The other men followed his example, and Steve extinguishing the lamp, the forecastle surrendered itself to sleep.