“An’ that little bit o’ rope, cookie,” said Bill, “it’s just down by your ’and. Now, Tommy.”
The youngest member of the crew looked from his clothes to the rope, and from the rope back to his clothes again.
“How’m I goin’ to be fed?” he demanded sullenly, as he began to dress.
“You’ll have a stone bottle o’ water to take down with you an’ some biskits,” replied Bill, “an’ of a night time we’ll hand you down some o’ that meat you’re so fond of. Hide ’em behind the cargo, an’ if you hear anybody take the hatch off in the day time, nip behind it yourself.”
“An’ what about fresh air?” demanded the sacrifice.
“You’ll ’ave fresh air of a night when the hatch is took off,” said Bill. “Don’t you worry, I’ve thought of everything.”
The arrangements being concluded, they waited until Simpson relieved the mate at the helm, and then trooped up on deck, half-pushing and half-leading their reluctant victim.
“It’s just as if he was going on a picnic,” said old Ned, as the boy stood unwillingly on the deck, with a stone bottle in one hand and some biscuits wrapped up in an old newspaper in the other.
“Lend a ’and, Bill. Easy does it.”
Noiselessly the two seamen took off the hatch, and, as Tommy declined to help in the proceedings at all, Ned clambered down first to receive him. Bill took him by the scruff of the neck and lowered him down, kicking strongly, into the hold.