“Another what?” demanded the other, turning pale.
The mate jerked his thumb upwards. “Old Ned has got it,” he continued. “I can’t think what’s come over the men.”
The skipper dashed up on deck, and mechanically took the letter from Ned and read it through. He stood for some time like a man in a dream, and then stumbled down the forecastle, and looked in all the bunks and even under the table; then he came up and stood by the hold, with his head on one side. The men held their breath.
“What’s the meaning of all this?” he demanded at length, sitting limply on the hatch, with his eyes down.
“Bad grub, sir,” said Simpson, gaining courage from his manner; “that’s what we’ll have to say when we get ashore.”
“You’re not to say a word about it!” said the other, firing up.
“It’s our dooty, sir,” said Ned impressively.
“Look here now,” said the skipper, and he looked at the remaining members of the crew entreatingly. “Don’t let’s have no more suicides. The old meat’s gone now, and you can start the other, and when we get to port I’ll ship in some fresh butter and vegetables. But I don’t want you to say anything about the food being bad, or about these letters, when we get to port I shall simply say the two of ’em disappeared, an’ I want you to say the same.”
“It can’t be done, sir,” said Simpson firmly.
The skipper rose and walked to the side. “Would a fi’pun note make any difference?” he asked in a low voice.