They returned to the brig at eleven o’clock, Mr. Dodds slumbering peacefully in the stern of the boat, propped up on either side by Steve and the boy.
His sleep was so profound that he declined to be aroused, and was hoisted over the side with infinite difficulty and no little risk by his shipmates.
“Look at ’im,” said Harry, as they lowered him down the forecastle. “What ’ud ha’ become of ’im if we hadn’t been with ’im? Where would ’is money ha’ been?”
“He’ll lose it as sure as eggs is heggs,” said Steve, regarding him intently. “Bear a hand to lift ’im in his bunk, Harry.”
Harry complied, their task being rendered somewhat difficult by a slight return of consciousness in Mr. Dodds’ lower limbs, which, spreading themselves out fan wise, defied all attempts to pack them in the bunk.
“Let ’em hang out then,” said Harry savagely, wiping a little mud from his face. “Fancy that coming in for a fortin.”
“’E won’t ’ave it long,” said the cook, shaking his head.
“Wot ’e wants is a shock,” said Harry. “’Ow’d it be when he wakes up to tell ’im he’s lost all ’is money?”
“Wot’s the good o’ telling ’im,” demanded the cook, “when ’e’s got it in his pocket?”
“Well, let’s take it out,” said Pilchard. “I’ll hide it under my piller, and let him think he’s ’ad his pocket picked.”