“Dead,” said George. “Dead. Died at ten o’clock this morning. D’ye understand, fat-head?”
“I can’t say as ’ow I do,” said the cook somewhat acrimoniously.
“Pass the word round that I’m dead,” repeated George hurriedly. “Lay me out, cookie. I’ll do as much for you one day.”
Instead of complying the horrified cook rushed up on deck to tell the skipper that George’s brain had gone; but, finding him in the midst of a hurried explanation to the men, stopped with greedy ears to listen. The skiff was making straight for the schooner, propelled by an elderly waterman in his shirt-sleeves, the sole passenger being a lady of ample proportions, who was watching the life of the river through a black veil.
In another minute the skiff bumped alongside, and the waterman standing in the boat passed the painter aboard. The skipper gazed at the fare and, shivering inwardly, hoped that George was a good actor.
“I want to see Mr. Cooper,” said the lady grimly, as she clambered aboard, assisted by the waterman.
“I’m very sorry, but you can’t see him, mum,” said the skipper politely.
“Ho! carn’t I?” said the lady, raising her voice a little. “You go an’ tell him that his lawful wedded wife, what he deserted, is aboard.”
“It ’ud be no good, mum,” said the skipper, who felt the full dramatic force of the situation. “I’m afraid he wouldn’t listen to you.”
“Ho! I think I can persuade ’im a bit,” said the lady, drawing in her lips. “Where is ’e?”