“I’ve a good mind to strike, that’s what I’ve a good mind to do,” he said savagely, as, after an attempt at the butter, he put it aside and ate dry biscuit.
“An’ get six months,” said old Ned. “That won’t do, Bill.”
“Are we to go a matter of six or seven days on dry biscuit and rotten taters?” demanded the other fiercely. “Why, it’s slow sooicide.”
“I wish one of you would commit sooicide,” said Ned, looking wistfully round at the faces, “that ’ud frighten the old man, and bring him round a bit.”
“Well, you’re the eldest,” said Bill pointedly.
“Drowning’s a easy death too,” said Simpson persuasively. “You can’t have much enjoyment in life at your age, Ned?”
“And you might leave a letter behind to the skipper, saying as ’ow you was drove to it by bad food,” said the cook, who was getting excited.
“Talk sense!” said the old man very shortly.
“Look here,” said Bill suddenly. “I tell you what we can do: let one of us pretend to commit suicide, and write a letter as Slushy here ses, saying as ’ow we’re gone overboard sooner than be starved to death. It ’ud scare the old man proper; and p’raps he’d let us start on the other meat without eating up this rotten stuff first.”
“How’s it to be done?” asked Simpson, staring.