“I tell you I can’t,” said the urchin, becoming hopeful, “that’s why they sent me to sea becos I couldn’t read or write.”
“Pull his ear, Bill,” said Ned, annoyed at these aspersions upon an honourable profession.
“It don’t matter,” said Bill, calmly. “I’ll write it for ’im; the old man don’t know my fist.”
He sat down at the table, and, squaring his shoulders, took a noisy dip of ink, and scratching his head, looked pensively at the paper.
“Better spell it bad, Bill,” suggested Ned.
“Ay, ay,” said the other. “’Ow do you think a boy would spell sooicide, Ned?”
The old man pondered. “S-o-o-e-y-s-i-d-e,” he said slowly.
“Why, that’s the right way, ain’t it?” inquired the cook, looking from one to the other.
“We mustn’t spell it right,” said Bill, with his pen hovering over the paper. “Be careful, Ned.”
“We’ll say killed myself instead,” said the old man. “A boy wouldn’t use such a big word as that p’raps.”