There was a slight murmur from the men, who stood by watching the skipper with an air of unholy expectancy.
“Well, the boy shall eat it then,” said the skipper. “Eat that bloater, boy, and I’ll give you sixpence.”
The boy came forward slowly, and looking from the men to the skipper, and from the skipper back to the men, began to whimper.
“If you think it’s poisoned,” interrupted the mate, “you oughtn’t to make the boy eat it. I don’t like boys, but you must draw the line somewhere.”
“It’s poisoned,” said the skipper, shaking it at Bates, “and they know it. Well, I’ll keep it till we get to port, and then I’ll have it analysed. And it’ll be a sorry day for you, Bates, when I hear it’s poisoned. A month’s hard labour is what you’ll get.”
He turned away and went below with as much dignity as could be expected of a man carrying a mangled herring, and placing it on a clean plate, solemnly locked it up in his state-room.
For two days the crew heard no more about it, though the skipper’s eyes gleamed dangerously each time that they fell upon the shrinking Bates. The weather was almost tropical, with not an air stirring, and the Arethusa, bearing its dread secret still locked in its state-room, rose and fell upon a sea of glassy smoothness without making any progress worth recording.
“I wish you’d keep that thing in your berth, George,” said the skipper, as they sat at tea the second evening; “it puts me in a passion every time I look at it.”
“I couldn’t think of it, cap’n,” replied the mate firmly; “it makes me angry enough as it is. Every time I think of ’em trying to poison that poor dumb creature I sort o’ choke. I try to forget it.”
The skipper, eyeing him furtively, helped himself to another cup of tea.