aid Bill blackly, "the old man was badly
scared yesterday. We must have another sooicide, that's all."

"Let Tommy do it again," suggested the cook flippantly, and they all
laughed.

"Two on one trip'll about do the old man up," said Bill, regarding the
interruption unfavourably. "Now, who's going to be the next?"

"We've had enough o' this game," said Simpson, shrugging his shoulders,
"you've gone cranky, Bill."

"No, I ain't," said Bill; "I'm not going to be beat, that's all. Whoever
goes down they 'll have a nice, easy, lazy time. Sleep all day if he
likes, and nothing to do. _You_ ain't been looking very well lately,
Ned."

"Oh?" said the old man coldly.

"Well, settle it between you," said Bill carelessly, "it's all one to
me, which of you goes."

"Ho, an' what about you?" demanded Simpson.

"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; out,
cookie."

Sorely against his better sense the cook complied, and drew a ten; Ned,
after much argument, cut and drew seven; Simpson, with a king in his
fist, leaned back on the locker and fingered his beard nonchalantly. "Go
on, Bill," he said, "see what you can do."

Bill took the pack and shuffled it. "I orter be able to beat seven," he
said slowly. He handed the pack to Ned, drew a card, and the other three
sat back and laughed boisterously.

"Three!" said Simpson. "Bravo, Bill! Ill write your letter for you; he'd
know your writing. What shall I say?"

"Say what you like," retorted Bill, breathing hard as he thought of the
hold.

He sat back, sneering disdainfully, as the other three merrily sat down
to compose his letter, replying only by a contemptuous silence when
Simpson asked him whether he wanted any