They got under way at four o’clock next morning, and woke the cook up to assist at 3.30. At 3.45 they woke him again, and at 3.50 dragged him from his bunk and tried to arouse him to a sense of his duties. The cook, with his eyes still closed, crawled back again the moment they left him, and though they had him out twice after that, he went back in the same somnambulistic state and resumed his slumbers.
Brittlesea was thirty miles astern when he at length awoke and went on deck, and the schooner was scudding along under a stiff breeze. It was a breeze such as the mate loved, and his face was serene and peaceful until his gaze fell upon the shrinking figure of the cook as it glided softly into the galley.
“Cook,” he roared, “come here, you skulking rascal! Where’ve you been all this time?”
“I’ve been in trouble, sir,” said the cook humbly; “you’ll ’ardly believe the trouble I’ve been in through trying to do the skipper a kindness.”
“Don’t you come none of that with me,” roared the mate warningly. “Where’ve you been? Come, out with it!”
The cook, still somewhat weak from his adventures, leaned against the companion, and with much dramatic gesture began his story. As it proceeded the mate’s breath came thick and fast, his color rose, and he became erratic in his steering. Flattered by these symptoms of concern, the cook continued.
“That’ll do,” said the mate at last.
“I ain’t got to the worst of it yet, sir,” said the cook.
“If you stand there lying to me for another moment I’ll break your neck,” said the mate violently. “You’ve had two days on the drink, that’s what you’ve had.”
“It’s gawspel truth, sir,” said the cook solemnly.