“Go an’ ’ide down the fore ’old,” said Bill. “There’s not much stuff down there. We’ll take off the hatch when one of us is on watch to-night, and—whoever wants to—can go and hide down there till the old man’s come to his senses. What do you think of it, mates?”
“It’s all right as an idea,” said Ned slowly, “but who’s going?”
“Tommy,” replied Bill simply.
“Blest if I ever thought of him,” said Ned admiringly; “did you, cookie?”
“Never crossed my mind,” said the cook.
“You see the best o’ Tommy’s going,” said Bill, “is that the old man ’ud only give him a flogging if he found it out. We wouldn’t split as to who put the hatch on over him. He can be there as comfortable as you please, do nothing, and sleep all day if he likes. O’ course we don’t know anything about it, we miss Tommy, and find the letter wrote on this table.”
The cook leaned forward and regarded his colleague favourably; then he pursed his lips, and nodded significantly at an upper bunk from which the face of Tommy, pale and scared, looked anxiously down.
“Halloa!” said Bill, “have you heard what we’ve been saying?”
“I heard you say something about going to drown old Ned,” said Tommy guardedly.
“He’s heard all about it,” said the cook severely. “Do you know where little boys who tell lies go to, Tommy?”