“The last he ever wore,” said the skipper pathetically, pointing to the heap of clothing. “There’s his chest, pore chap, just as he left it.”
The bereaved widow bent down, and, raising the lid, shook her head tearfully as she regarded the contents. Then she gathered up the clothes under her left arm, and, still sobbing, took his watch, his knife, and some small change from his chest, while the crew in dumb show inquired of the deceased, who was regarding her over the edge of the bunk, what was to be done.
“I suppose there was some money due to him?” she inquired, turning to the skipper.
“Matter of a few shillings,” he stammered.
“I’ll take them,” she said, holding out her hand.
The skipper put his hand in his pocket and, in his turn, looked inquiringly at the late lamented for guidance; but George had closed his eyes again to the world, and, after a moment’s hesitation, he slowly counted the money into her hand.
She dropped the coins into her pocket, and, with a parting glance at the motionless figure in the bunk, turned away. The procession made its way on deck again, but not in the same order, the cook carefully bringing up the rear.
“If there’s any other little things,” she said, pausing at the side to get a firmer grip of the clothes under her arm.
“You shall have them,” said the skipper, who had been making mental arrangements to have George buried before her return.
Apparently much comforted by this assurance, she allowed herself to be lowered into the boat, which was waiting. The excitement of the crew of the brig, who had been watching her movements with eager interest, got beyond the bounds of all decency as they saw her being pulled ashore with the clothes in her lap.