cook.

"You see the best o' Tommy's going," said Bill, "is that the old man 'ud
only give him a flogging if he found it out. We wouldn't split as to who
put the hatch on over him. He can be there as comfortable as you please,
do nothing, and sleep all day if he likes. O' course we don't know
anything about it, we miss Tommy, and find the letter wrote on this
table."

The cook leaned forward and regarded his colleague favourably; then he
pursed his lips, and nodded significantly at an upper bunk from which
the face of Tommy, pale and scared, looked anxiously down.

"Halloa!" said Bill, "have you heard what we've been saying?"

"I heard you say something about going to drown old Ned," said Tommy
guardedly.

"He's heard all about it," said the cook severely. "Do you know where
little boys who tell lies go to, Tommy?"

"I'd sooner go there than down the fore 'old," said Tommy, beginning to
knuckle his eyes. "I won't go. I'll tell the skipper."

"No you won't," said Bill sternly. "This is your punishment for them
lies you told about us to-day, an' very cheap you've got off too. Now,
get out o' that bunk. Come on afore I pull you out."

With a miserable whimper the youth dived beneath his blankets, and,
clinging frantically to the edge of his berth, kicked convulsively as he
was lifted down, blankets and all, and accommodated with a seat at the
table.

"Pen and ink and paper, Ned," said Bill.

The old man produced them, and Bill, first wiping off with his
coat-sleeve a piece of butter which the paper had obtained from the
table, spread it before the victim.

"I can't write," said Tommy suddenly.

The men looked at each other in dismay.

"It's a lie," said the cook.

"I tell you I can't," said the urchin, becoming hopeful; "that's why
they sent me to sea, becos I couldn't read or write."

"Pull his ear, Bill," said Ned, annoyed at these aspersions upon an
honourable profession.

"It don't matter," said Bill calmly. "I'll write it for 'im; the old man
don't know my fist."

He sat down at the table, and, squaring his shoulders, took a noisy dip
of ink, and scratching his head, looked pensively at the paper.

"Better spell it bad, Bill," suggested Ned.

"Ay, ay," said the other. "'Ow do you think a boy would spell
'sooicide,' Ned?"

The old man pondered. "S-o-o-e-y-s-i-d-e," he said slowly.

"Why, that's the right way, ain't it?" inquired the cook, looking from
one to the other.

"We mustn't spell i