“What do I think about it?” exclaimed Sam, after they had laid the state of the case before him. “I’ll tell ye, boys. Big Gipples, him no fool. He’s stowed his fat carcase away somewhere down in de hold. Let’s you all and me go and look for him, and we soon rouse him up like one great rat with rope’s end.”
“Set a thief to catch a thief!” whispered Harry to Fid. “I thought he would know where Gipples was likely to be found.”
Sam had been known on more than one occasion to stow himself snugly away during action. When discovered, he had boldly avowed the wisdom of his conduct. “For why?” he argued. “Suppose now my arm shot away, ship’s company lose fiddler; for how I fiddle without arm? And suppose no fiddler, how anchor got up? how ship go to sea? and how take prize? and how dance and be merry? No, no; you men no signify—go and be shot. I berry important—take care of self.”
Accordingly, Sam being the guide, the party set out with proper authority to look for the missing Gipples. They searched in every vacant space in the cable tier, and in every accessible spot in the hold, among the water-casks and more bulky stores not under lock and key; but no Gregory was forthcoming.
Fid began to fear that his forebodings would prove true. One spot, however, had to be visited, commonly called the coal-hole. It was very dark and close, and not a place that any one would willingly pass a day in.
They thought that every corner had been explored, when, just as they were retiring, Fid heard a suppressed groan. He started, and, had he been alone, he felt that he should not have liked it; but he was a brave little fellow, especially in company with others; so he stopped and listened, and called Sam, who held the lantern, to examine the spot whence the groan had proceeded.
There was a loose pile of firewood in one corner; and, on examining it, there was no doubt that it had slipped over during the night. “He or his ghost is under there,” said Fid, pointing to it.
“Even if it’s his ghost, it’s not a pleasant place to be in!” exclaimed True Blue, setting to work to remove the logs.
This was soon accomplished; and there, sure enough, black as a sweep from the coal dust, and bruised with the logs, lay not the ghost of Gipples, but Gipples himself, terribly frightened with the idea that he was looked-for only that he might be drawn forth to be punished.
“Oh, lagged—lagged!” he exclaimed bitterly. “I’ll not do it again—indeed I won’t, your worship. Just let me off this once. Oh do!”