“Ay, ay, sir,” said the cook.
They formed a procession below, the skipper and mate leading; the cook with his fair burden, choking her sobs with a handkerchief, and the crew following.
“What did he die of?” she asked in a whisper broken with sobs.
“Chill from the water,” whispered the skipper in response.
“I can’t see ’im,” she whispered. “It’s so dark here. Has anybody got a match? Oh! here’s some.”
Before anybody could interfere she took a box from a locker, and, striking one, bent over the motionless George, and gazed at his tightly-closed eyes and open mouth in silence.
“You’ll set the bed alight,” said the mate in a low voice, as the end of the match dropped off.
“It won’t hurt ’im,” whispered the widow tearfully.
The mate, who had distinctly seen the corpse shift a bit, thought differently.
“Nothing ’ll ’urt ’im now,” whispered the widow, sniffing as she struck another match. “Oh! if he could only sit up ’and speak to me.”