“Not turned up yet?” said the mate, with a glance at the visitor’s empty berth.
The skipper shook his head spiritlessly and pointed to the table. The mate following his finger, saw a small canvas bag, and by the side of it four-pence halfpenny in coppers and an unknown amount in brace buttons.
“There was twenty-three pounds freight money in that bag when we left London,” said the skipper, finding his voice at last.
“Well, what do you think’s become of it?” inquired the mate, taking up the lamp and blowing it out.
“I can’t think,” said the skipper, “my ’ed’s all confused. Bro—Mr. Hutchins ain’t come back yet.”
“I s’pose he was late and didn’t like to disturb you,” said the mate without moving a muscle, “but I’ve no doubt ’e’s all right. Don’t you worry about him.”
“It’s very strange where it’s gone, George,” faltered the skipper, “very strange.”
“Well, ’Utchins is a generous sort o’ chap,” said the mate, “’e give the men five pounds for nothing, so perhaps he’ll give you something—when ’e comes back.”
“Go an’ ask the crew to come down here,” said the skipper, sinking on a locker and gazing at the brazen collection before him.
The mate obeyed, and a few minutes afterwards returned with the men, who, swarming into the cabin, listened sympathetically as the skipper related his loss.