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The skipper grunted assent.

“It ‘ud be worth trying,” said the mate. “We’ve pretended to have a quarrel. Now just as we’re going into port let one of the hands, the boy if you like, pretend he’s sickening for small-pox.”

“How’s he going to do it?” inquired the skipper derisively.

“You leave it to me,” replied the other. “I’ve got an idea how it’s to be done.”

Against his better judgment the skipper, after some demur, consented, and the following day, when the passengers were on deck gazing at the small port of Summercove as they slowly approached it, the cook came up excitedly and made a communication to the skipper.

“What?” cried the latter. “Nonsense.”

“What’s the matter?” demanded Mrs. Bunnett, turning round.

“Cook, here, has got it into his head that the boy’s got the small-pox,” said the skipper.

Both women gave a faint scream.

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Bunnett, with a pale face.

“Rubbish,” said Mrs. Fillson, clasping her hands nervously.

“Very good, mum,” said the cook calmly. “You know best, o’ course, but I was on a barque once what got it aboard bad, and I think I ought to know it when I see it.”

“Yes; and now you think everything’s the smallpox,” said Mrs. Bunnett uneasily.

“Very well, mum,” said the cook, spreading out his hands. “Will you come down an’ ‘ave a look at ‘im?”

“No,” snapped Mrs. Bunnett, retreating a pace or two.

“Will you come down an’ ‘ave a look at ‘im, sir,” inquired the cook.

“You stay where you are, George,” said Mrs. Bunnett shrilly, as her husband moved forward. “Go farther off, cook.”

“And keep your tongue still when we get to port,” said the mate. “Don’t go blabbing it all over the place, mind, or we shan’t get nobody to work us out.”

“Ay, ay,” said the cook, moving off. “I ain’t afraid of it–I’ve given it to people, but I’ve never took it myself yet.”

“I’m sure I wish I was off this dreadful ship,” said Mrs. Fillson nervously. “Nothing but unpleasantness. How long before we get to Summercove, Cap’n Bunnett?”

“‘Bout a hour an’ a ‘arf ought to do it,” said the skipper.

Both ladies sighed anxiously, and, going as far aft as possible, gazed eagerly at the harbour as it opened out slowly before them.

“I shall go back by train,” said Mrs. Bunnett. “It’s a shame, having my holiday spoilt like this.”

“It’s one o’ them things what can’t be helped,” said her husband piously.

“You’d better give me a little money,” continued his wife. “I shall get lodgings in the town for a day or two, till I see how things are going.”

“It ‘ud be better for you to get straight back home,” said the skipper.

“Nonsense,” said his wife sharply. “Suppose you take it yourself, I should have to be here to see you were looked after. I’m sure Mrs. Fillson isn’t going home.”

Mrs. Fillson, holding out her hand to Mr. Fillson, said she was sure she wasn’t.

“It ‘ud be a load off our minds if you did go,” said the mate, speaking for both.

“Well, we’re not going for a day or two at any-rate,” said Mrs. Bunnett, glancing almost amiably at Mrs. Fillson.

In face of this declaration, and in view of the persistent demands of the ladies, both men, with a very ill grace furnished them with some money.

“Don’t say a word about it ashore, mind,” said the mate, avoiding his chief’s indignant gaze.

“But you must have a doctor,” said Mrs. Bunnett.

“I know of a doctor here,” said the mate; “that’s all arranged for.”

He moved away for a little private talk with the skipper, but that gentleman was not in a conversational mood, and a sombre silence fell upon all until they were snugly berthed at Summercove, and the ladies, preceded by their luggage on a trolly, went off to look for lodgings. They sent down an hour later to say that they had found them, and that they were very clean and comfortable, but a little more than they had intended to give. They implored their husbands not to run any unnecessary risks, and sent some disinfectant soap for them to wash with.