“I’d sooner go there than down the fore ’old,” said Tommy, beginning to knuckle his eyes. “I won’t go. I’ll tell the skipper.”
“No you won’t,” said Bill sternly. “This is your punishment for them lies you told about us to-day, an’ very cheap you’ve got off too. Now, get out o’ that bunk. Come on afore I pull you out.”
With a miserable whimper the youth dived beneath his blankets, and, clinging frantically to the edge of his berth, kicked convulsively as he was lifted down, blankets and all, and accommodated with a seat at the table.
“Pen and ink and paper, Ned,” said Bill.
The old man produced them, and Bill, first wiping off with his coat-sleeve a piece of butter which the paper had obtained from the table, spread it before the victim.
“I can’t write,” said Tommy suddenly.
The men looked at each other in dismay.
“It’s a lie,” said the cook.
“I tell you I can’t,” said the urchin, becoming hopeful; “that’s why they sent me to sea, becos I couldn’t read or write.”
“Pull his ear, Bill,” said Ned, annoyed at these aspersions upon an honourable profession.