“You haven’t got a tin box with a lid to it, I s’pose?” he remarked somewhat shamefacedly.
The mate shook his head. “I looked for one this morning,” he said. “There ain’t so much as a bottle aboard we could shove it into, and it wants shoving into something—bad, it does.”
“I don’t like to be beat,” said the skipper, shaking his head. “All them grinning monkeys for’ard ’ud think it a rare good joke. I’d throw it overboard if it wasn’t for that. We can’t keep it this weather.”
“Well, look ’ere; ’ere’s a way out of it,” said the mate. “Call Joe down, and make him keep it in the foc’sle and take care of it. That’ll punish ’em all too.”
“Why, you idiot, he’d lose it!” rapped out the other impatiently.
“O’ course he would,” said the mate; “but that’s the most digernified way out of it for you. You can call ’im all sorts o’ things, and abuse ’im for the rest of his life. They’ll prove themselves guilty by chucking it away, won’t they?”
It really seemed the only thing to be done. The skipper finished his tea in silence, and then going on deck called the crew aft and apprised them of his intentions, threatening them with all sorts of pains and penalties if the treasure about to be confided to their keeping should be lost The cook was sent below for it, and, at the skipper’s bidding, handed it to the grinning Joe.
“And mind,” said the skipper as he turned away, “I leave it in your keepin’, and if it’s missing I shall understand that you’ve made away with it, and I shall take it as a sign of guilt, and act according.”
The end came sooner even than he expected. They were at breakfast next morning when Joe, looking somewhat pale, came down to the cabin, followed by Clark, bearing before him an empty plate.
“Well?” said the skipper fiercely.