“Yes; and now you think everything’s the smallpox,” said Mrs. Bunnett uneasily.
“Very well, mum,” said the cook, spreading out his hands. “Will you come down an’ ’ave a look at ’im?”
“No,” snapped Mrs. Bunnett, retreating a pace or two.
“Will you come down an’ ’ave a look at ’im, sir,” inquired the cook.
“You stay where you are, George,” said Mrs. Bunnett shrilly, as her husband moved forward. “Go farther off, cook.”
“And keep your tongue still when we get to port,” said the mate. “Don’t go blabbing it all over the place, mind, or we shan’t get nobody to work us out.”
“Ay, ay,” said the cook, moving off. “I ain’t afraid of it—I’ve given it to people, but I’ve never took it myself yet.”
“I’m sure I wish I was off this dreadful ship,” said Mrs. Fillson nervously. “Nothing but unpleasantness. How long before we get to Summercove, Cap’n Bunnett?”
“’Bout a hour an’ a ’arf ought to do it,” said the skipper.
Both ladies sighed anxiously, and, going as far aft as possible, gazed eagerly at the harbour as it opened out slowly before them.