“I won’t ’ave nothing to do with it,” said Steve peremptorily. “I don’t believe in sich games.”
“Wot do you think, cook?” inquired Harry.
“I don’t see no ’arm in it,” said the cook slowly; “the fright might do ’im good, p’raps.”
“It might be the saving of ’im,” said Harry. He leaned over the sleeping seaman, and, gently inserting his fingers in his breast-pocket, drew out the canvas bag. “There it is, chaps,” he said gaily; “an’ I’ll give ’im sich a fright in the morning as he won’t forget in a ’urry.”
He retired to his bunk, and placing the bag under his pillow, was soon fast asleep. The other men followed his example, and Steve extinguishing the lamp, the forecastle surrendered itself to sleep.
At five o’clock they were awakened by the voice of Mr. Dodds. It was a broken, disconnected sort of voice at first, like to that of a man talking in his sleep; but as Mr. Dodds’ head cleared his ideas cleared with it, and in strong, forcible language straight from the heart he consigned the eyes and limbs of some person or persons unknown to every variety of torment; after which, in a voice broken with emotion, he addressed himself in terms of heartbreaking sympathy.
“Shut up, Sam,” said Harry in a sleepy voice. “Why can’t you go to sleep?”
“Sleep be ’anged,” said Mr. Dodds tearfully. “I’ve lorst all my money.”
“You’re dreamin’,” said Harry lightly; “pinch yourself.”
Mr. Dodds, who had a little breath left and a few words still comparatively fresh, bestowed them upon him.