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“Ay, ay,” said Ned, with a side kick at the cook, who was about to question Bill’s method of division.

“The old man sucked it all in beautiful,” said the cook. “He’s in a dreadful way. He’s got all your clothes and things, and the boy’s, and he’s going to ‘and ’em over to your friends. It’s the best joke I ever heard.”

“You’re a fool!” said Bill shortly, and lighting his pipe went and squatted in the bows to wrestle grimly with a naturally bad temper.

For the ensuing four days things went on smoothly enough. The weather being fair, the watch at night was kept by the men, and regularly they had to go through the unpleasant Jack-in-the-box experience of taking the lid off Bill. The sudden way he used to pop out and rate them about his sufferings and their callousness was extremely trying, and it was only by much persuasion and reminders of his share of the hush-money that they could persuade him to return again to his lair at daybreak.

Still undisturbed they rounded the Land’s End. The day had been close and muggy, but towards night the wind freshened, and the schooner began to slip at a good pace through the water. The two prisoners, glad to escape from the stifling atmosphere of the hold, sat in the bows with an appetite which the air made only too keen for the preparations made to satisfy it.

Ned was steering, and the other two men having gone below and turned in, there were no listeners to their low complaints about the food.

“It’s a fool’s game, Tommy,” said Bill, shaking his head.

“Game?” said Tommy, sniffing. “‘Ow are we going to get away when we get to Northsea?”

“You leave that to me,” said Bill. “Old Ned seems to ha’ got a bad cough,” he added.

“He’s choking, I should think,” said Tommy, leaning forward. “Look! he’s waving his hand at us.”

Both sprang up hastily, but ere they could make any attempt to escape the skipper and mate emerged from the companion and walked towards them.

“Look here,” said the skipper, turning to the mate, and indicating the culprits with his hand; “perhaps you’ll disbelieve in dreams now.”

“‘Straordinary!” said the mate, rubbing his eyes, as Bill stood sullenly waiting events, while the miserable Tommy skulked behind him.

“I’ve heard o’ such things,” continued the skipper, in impressive tones, “but I never expected to see it You can’t say you haven’t seen a ghost now, Bob.”

“‘Straordinary!” said the mate, shaking his head again. “Lifelike!”

“The ship’s haunted, Ned,” cried the skipper in hollow tones. “Here’s the sperrits o’ Bill and the boy standing agin the windlass.”

The bewildered old seaman made no reply; the smaller spirit sniffed and wiped his nose on his cuff, and the larger one began to whistle softly.

“Poor things!” said the skipper, after they had discussed these extraordinary apparitions for some time. “Can you see the windlass through the boy, Bob?”

“I can see through both of ’em,” said the mate slyly.

They stayed on deck a little longer, and then coming to the conclusion that their presence on deck could do no good, and indeed seemed only to embarrass their visitors, went below again, leaving all hands a prey to the wildest astonishment.

“Wot’s ‘is little game?” asked Simpson, coming cautiously up on deck.

“Damned if I know,” said Bill savagely.

“He don’t really think you’re ghosts?” suggested the cook feebly.

“O’ course not,” said Bill scornfully. “He’s got some little game on. Well, I’m going to my bunk. You’d better come too, Tommy. We’ll find out what it all means to-morrer, I’ve no doubt.”

On the morrow they received a little enlightenment, for after breakfast the cook came forward nervously to break the news that meat and vegetables had only been served out for three. Consternation fell upon all.

“I’ll go an’ see ‘im,” said Bill ravenously.

He found the skipper laughing heartily over something with the mate. At the seaman’s approach he stepped back and eyed him coolly.