“How’s he going to do it?” inquired the skipper derisively.
“You leave it to me,” replied the other. “I’ve got an idea how it’s to be done.”
Against his better judgment the skipper, after some demur, consented, and the following day, when the passengers were on deck gazing at the small port of Summercove as they slowly approached it, the cook came up excitedly and made a communication to the skipper.
“What?” cried the latter. “Nonsense.”
“What’s the matter?” demanded Mrs. Bunnett, turning round.
“Cook, here, has got it into his head that the boy’s got the small-pox,” said the skipper.
Both women gave a faint scream.
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Bunnett, with a pale face.
“Rubbish,” said Mrs. Fillson, clasping her hands nervously.
“Very good, mum,” said the cook calmly. “You know best, o’ course, but I was on a barque once what got it aboard bad, and I think I ought to know it when I see it.”