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“Come down below,” said Bill; “we want to have a talk with you.”

“Can’t,” said the boy. “I’ve got my work to do. I haven’t got time to talk.”

He stayed up on deck until evening, and then, the men’s anger having evaporated somewhat, crept softly below, and climbed into his bunk. Simpson leaned over and made a clutch at him, but Bill pushed him aside.

“Leave him alone,” said he quietly; “we’ll take it out of him to-morrow.”

For some time Tommy lay worrying over the fate in store for him, and then, yielding to fatigue, turned over and slept soundly until he was awakened some three hours later by the men’s voices, and, looking out, saw that the lamp was alight and the crew at supper, listening quietly to Bill, who was speaking.

“I’ve a good mind to strike, that’s what I’ve a good mind to do,” he said savagely, as, after an attempt at the butter, he put it aside and ate dry biscuit.

“An’ get six months,” said old Ned. “That won’t do, Bill.”

“Are we to go a matter of six or seven days on dry biscuit and rotten taters?” demanded the other fiercely. “Why, it’s slow sooicide.”

“I wish one of you would commit sooicide,” said Ned, looking wistfully round at the faces, “that ‘ud frighten the old man, and bring him round a bit.”

“Well, you’re the eldest,” said Bill pointedly.

“Drowning’s a easy death too,” said Simpson persuasively. “You can’t have much enjoyment in life at your age, Ned?”

“And you might leave a letter behind to the skipper, saying as ‘ow you was drove to it by bad food,” said the cook, who was getting excited.

“Talk sense!” said the old man very shortly.

“Look here,” said Bill suddenly. “I tell you what we can do: let one of us pretend to commit suicide, and write a letter as Slushy here ses, saying as ‘ow we’re gone overboard sooner than be starved to death. It ‘ud scare the old man proper; and p’raps he’d let us start on the other meat without eating up this rotten stuff first.”

“How’s it to be done?” asked Simpson, staring.

“Go an’ ‘ide down the fore ‘old,” said Bill. “There’s not much stuff down there. We’ll take off the hatch when one of us is on watch to-night, and–whoever wants to–can go and hide down there till the old man’s come to his senses. What do you think of it, mates?”

“It’s all right as an idea,” said Ned slowly, “but who’s going?”

“Tommy,” replied Bill simply.

“Blest if I ever thought of him,” said Ned admiringly; “did you, cookie?”

“Never crossed my mind,” said the 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.