“Me?” inquired Bill in astonishment. “Why, I’ve got to stay up here and manage it.”
“Well, we’ll stay up and help you,” said Simpson derisively.
Ned and the cook laughed, Simpson joined in. Bill rose, and, going to his bunk, fished out a pack of greasy cards from beneath his bedding.
“Larst cut, sooicide,” he said briefly, “I’m in it.”
He held the pack before the cook. The cook hesitated, and looked at the other two.
“Don’t be a fool, Bill,” said Simpson.
“Why, do you funk it?” sneered Bill.
“It’s a fool’s game, I tell you,” said Simpson.
“Well, you ’elped me start it,” said the other. “You’re afraid, that’s what you are,—afraid. You can let the boy go down there, but when it comes to yourselves you turn chicken-’arted.”
“All right,” said Simpson recklessly, “let Bill ’ave ’is way; cut, cookie.”