FullReads

“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 it right,” said Bill, with his pen hovering over the paper. “Be careful, Ned.”

“We’ll say ‘killed myself instead,'” said the old man. “A boy wouldn’t use such a big word as that p’raps.”

Bill bent over his work, and, apparently paying great attention to his friends’ entreaties not to write it too well, slowly wrote the letter.

“How’s this?” he inquired, sitting back in his seat.

“‘Deer captin i take my pen in hand for the larst time to innform you that i am no more suner than heat the ‘orrible stuff what you kail meet i have drownded miself it is a moor easy death than starvin’ i ‘ave left my clasp nife to bill an’ my silver wotch to it is ‘ard too dee so young tommie brown.'”

“Splendid!” said Ned, as the reader finished and looked inquiringly round.

“I put in that bit about the knife and the watch to make it seem real,” said Bill, with modest pride; “but, if you like, I’ll leave ’em to you instead, Ned.”

“I don’t want ’em,” said the old man generously.

“Put your cloes on,” said Bill, turning to the whimpering Tommy.

“I’m not going down that fore ‘old,” said Tommy desperately. “You may as well know now as later on–I won’t go.”

“Cookie,” said Bill calmly, “just ‘and me them cloes, will you? Now, Tommy.”

“I tell you I’m not going to,” said Tommy.

“An’ that little bit o’ rope, cookie,” said Bill; “it’s just down by your ‘and. Now, Tommy.”

The youngest member of the crew looked from his clothes to the rope, and from the rope back to his clothes again.

“How ‘m I goin’ to be fed?” he demanded sullenly, as he began to dress.

“You’ll have a stone bottle o’ water to take down with you an’ some biskits,” replied Bill, “an’ of a night-time we’ll hand you down some o’ that meat you’re so fond of. Hide ’em behind the cargo, an’ if you hear anybody take the hatch off in the daytime, nip behind it yourself.”

“An’ what about fresh air?” demanded the sacrifice.

“You’ll ‘ave fresh air of a night when the hatch is took off,” said Bill. “Don’t you worry, I’ve thought of everything.”

The arrangements being concluded, they waited until Simpson relieved the mate at the helm, and then trooped up on deck, half pushing and half leading their reluctant victim.

“It’s just as if he was going on a picnic,” said old Ned, as the boy stood unwillingly on the deck, with a stone bottle in one hand and some biscuits wrapped up in an old newspaper in the other.

“Lend a ‘and, Bill. Easy does it.”

Noiselessly the two seamen took off the hatch, and, as Tommy declined to help in the proceedings at all, Ned clambered down first to receive him. Bill took him by the scruff of the neck and lowered him, kicking strongly, into the hold.

“Have you got him?” he inquired.