“A pound cash,” said the boy. “A golden sovring each. Tork about Christians! I wish I knew a few more of ’em.”
“Well I never!” exclaimed the gratified skipper.
“An’ the way ’e did it was so nice,” said the oldest seaman. “’E ses, ‘That’s from me an’ the skipper,’ ’e ses. ‘Thank the skipper for it as much as me,’ ’e ses.”
“Well now, don’t waste it,” said the skipper. “I should bank it if I was you. It’ll make a nice little nest-egg.”
“I ’ope it was come by honest, that’s all,” said the mate.
“O’ course it was,” cried the skipper. “You’ve got a ’ard, cruel ’art, George. P’raps if it ’ad been a little softer you’d ’ave ’ad one too.”
“Blast ’is sovrings,” said the surly mate. “I’d like to know where he got ’em from, an’ wot e’ means by saying it come from you as much as ’im. I never knew you to give money away.”
“I s’pose,” said the skipper very softly, “he means that I put such-like thoughts into ’is ’art. Well, you’d better turn in, my lads. We start work at four.”
The hands went forward, and the skipper and mate descended to the cabin and prepared for sleep. The skipper set a lamp on the table ready for Mr. Hutchins when he should return, and after a short inward struggle bade the mate “good-night,” and in a couple of minutes was fast asleep.
At four o’clock the mate woke suddenly to find the skipper standing by his berth. The lamp still stood burning on the table, fighting feebly against the daylight which was pouring in through the skylight.