“Look here now,” said the skipper, and he looked at the remaining members of the crew entreatingly. “Don’t let’s have no more suicides. The old meat’s gone now, and you can start the other, and when we get to port I’ll ship in some fresh butter and vegetables. But I don’t want you to say anything about the food being bad, or about these letters when we get to port. I shall simply say the two of ’em disappeared, an’ I want you to say the same.”
“It can’t be done, sir,” said Simpson, firmly.
The skipper rose and walked to the side. “Would a fi’pun note make any difference?” he asked in a low voice.
“It ’ud make a little difference,” said Ned cautiously.
The skipper looked up at Simpson. On the face of Simpson was an expression of virtuous arithmetical determination.
The skipper looked down again. “Or a fi’pun note each?” he said, in a low voice. “I can’t go beyond that.”
“Call it twenty pun and it’s a bargain, ain’t it, mates?” said Simpson.
Ned said it was, and even the cook forgot his nervousness, and said it was evident the skipper must do the generous thing, and they’d stand by him.
“Where’s the money coming from?” inquired the mate as the skipper went down to breakfast, and discussed the matter with him. “They wouldn’t get nothing out of me!”
The skylight was open; the skipper with a glance at it bent forward and whispered in his ear.