anded over for his inspection he only made one remark.

"I thought you could write better than that, George," he said haughtily.

"I'm writing it for you," said Simpson.

Bill's hauteur vanished and he became his old self again. "If you want a
plug in the eye, George," he said feelingly, "you've only got to say so,
you know."

His temper was so unpleasant that half the pleasure of the evening was
spoiled, and instead of being conducted to his hiding-place with quips
and light laughter, the proceedings were more like a funeral than
anything else. The crowning touch to his ill-nature was furnished
by Tommy, who upon coming up and learning that Bill was to be his
room-mate, gave way to a fit of the most unfeigned horror.

"There's another letter for you this morning," said the mate, as the
skipper came out of his stateroom buttoning up his waistcoat.

"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.

"It 'ud make a little difference," said Ned cautiously.

The skipper looked up at Simpson. On the face of Simpson was an
expression of virtuous arit