“Oh, yes, you did,” said the other. “I’ve got your letters in my pocket to prove it; besides, if you didn’t I should give you in charge for desertion directly we get to port.”
He exchanged glances with the mate, and Bill, after standing first on one leg and then on the other, walked slowly away. For the rest of the morning he stayed below setting the smaller ghost a bad example in the way of language, and threatening his fellows with all sorts of fearful punishments.
Until dinner time the skipper heard no more of them, but he had just finished that meal and lit his pipe when he heard footsteps on the deck, and the next moment old Ned, hot and angry, burst into the cabin.
“Bill’s stole our dinner, sir,” he panted unceremoniously.
“Who?” inquired the skipper coldly.
“Bill, sir, Bill Smith,” replied Ned.
“Who?” inquired the skipper more coldly than before.
“The ghost o’ Bill Smith,” growled Ned, correcting himself savagely, “has took our dinner away, an’ him an’ the ghost o’ Tommy Brown is a sitting down and boltin’ of it as fast as they can bolt.”
“Well, I don’t see what I can do,” said the skipper lazily. “What’d you let ’em for?”
“You know what Bill is, sir,” said Ned. “I’m an old man, cook’s no good, and unless Simpson has a bit o’ raw beef for his eyes, he won’t be able to see for a week.”