The day passed slowly, and as night approached a sense of mystery and discomfort overhung the vessel. The man at the wheel got nervous, and flattered Bill into keeping him company by asking him to spin him a yarn. He had good reason for believing that he knew his comrade’s stock of stories by heart, but in the sequel it transpired that there was one, of a prisoner turning into a cat and getting out of the porthole and running up helmsmen’s backs, which he hadn’t heard before. And he told Bill in the most effective language he could command that he never wanted to hear it again.
The night passed and day broke, and still the mysterious passenger made no sign. The crew got in the habit of listening at the companion and peeping through the skylight; but the door of the stateroom was closed, and the cabin itself as silent as the grave. The skipper went about with a troubled face, and that afternoon, unable to endure the suspense any longer, civilly asked the mate to go below and investigate.
“I’d rather not,” said the mate, shrugging his shoulders.
“I’d sooner he served me and have done with it,” said the skipper. “I get thinking all sorts of awful things.”
“Well, why don’t you go down yourself?” said the mate. “He’d serve you fast enough, I’ve no doubt.”
“Well, it may be just his artfulness,” said the skipper; “an’ I don’t want to humour him if he’s all right. I’m askin’ it as a favour, Bob.”
“I’ll go if the cook’ll come,” said the mate after a pause.
The cook hesitated.
“Go on, cook,” said the skipper sharply; “don’t keep the mate waiting, and, whatever you do, don’t let him come up on deck.”
The mate led the way to the companion, and, opening it quietly, led the way below, followed by the cook. There was a minute’s awful suspense, and then a wild cry rang out below, and the couple came dashing madly up on deck again.