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“What are you going to do with it all, Sam?” inquired Harry.

“I ain’t made up my mind yet,” said Mr. Dodds deliberately. “I ‘ave thought of ‘ouse property.”

“I don’t mean that,” said the other. “I mean, wot are you going to do with it now, to take care of it?”

“Why, keep it in my pocket,” said Sam, staring.

“Well, if I was you,” said Harry impressively, “I should ask the skipper to take care of it for me. You know wot you are when you’re a bit on, Sam.”

“Wot d’ yer mean?” demanded Mr. Dodds hotly.

“I mean,” said Harry hastily, “that you’ve got sich a generous nature that when you’ve ‘ad a glass or two you’re just as likely as not to give it away to somebody.”

“I know what I’m about,” said Mr. Dodds with conviction. “I’m not goin’ to get on while I’ve got this about me. I’m just goin’ round to the ‘Bull’s Head,’ but I shan’t drink anything to speak of myself. Anybody that likes to come t’ave anything at my expense is welcome.”

A flattering murmur, which was music to Mr. Dodds’ ear, arose from his shipmates as they went on deck and hauled the boat alongside. The boy was first in her, and pulling out his pocket-handkerchief ostentatiously wiped down a seat for Mr. Dodds.

“Understand,” said that gentleman, with whom the affair of the half-sovereign still rankled, “your drink is shandygaff.”

* * * * *

They returned to the brig at eleven o’clock, Mr. Dodds slumbering peacefully in the stern of the boat, propped up on either side by Steve and the boy.

His sleep was so profound that he declined to be aroused, and was hoisted over the side with infinite difficulty and no little risk by his shipmates.

“Look at ‘im,” said Harry, as they lowered him down the forecastle. “What ‘ud ha’ become of ‘im if we hadn’t been with ‘im? Where would ‘is money ha’ been?”

“He’ll lose it as sure as eggs is heggs,” said Steve, regarding him intently. “Bear a hand to lift ‘im in his bunk, Harry.”

Harry complied, their task being rendered somewhat difficult by a slight return of consciousness in Mr. Dodds’ lower limbs, which, spreading themselves out fan wise, defied all attempts to pack them in the bunk.

“Let ’em hang out then,” said Harry savagely, wiping a little mud from his face. “Fancy that coming in for a fortin.”

“‘E won’t ‘ave it long,” said the cook, shaking his head.

“Wot ‘e wants is a shock,” said Harry. “‘Ow’d it be when he wakes up to tell ‘im he’s lost all ‘is money?”

“Wot’s the good o’ telling ‘im,” demanded the cook, “when ‘e’s got it in his pocket?”

“Well, let’s take it out,” said Pilchard. “I’ll hide it under my piller, and let him think he’s ‘ad his pocket picked.”

“I won’t ‘ave nothing to do with it,” said Steve peremptorily. “I don’t believe in sich games.”

“Wot do you think, cook?” inquired Harry.

“I don’t see no ‘arm in it,” said the cook slowly; “the fright might do ‘im good, p’raps.”

“It might be the saving of ‘im,” said Harry. He leaned over the sleeping seaman, and, gently inserting his fingers in his breast-pocket, drew out the canvas bag. “There it is, chaps,” he said gaily; “an’ I’ll give ‘im sich a fright in the morning as he won’t forget in a ‘urry.”

He retired to his bunk, and placing the bag under his pillow, was soon fast asleep. The other men followed his example, and Steve extinguishing the lamp, the forecastle surrendered itself to sleep.

At five o’clock they were awakened by the voice of Mr. Dodds. It was a broken, disconnected sort of voice at first, like to that of a man talking in his sleep; but as Mr. Dodds’ head cleared his ideas cleared with it, and in strong, forcible language straight from the heart he consigned the eyes and limbs of some person or persons unknown to every variety of torment; after which, in a voice broken with emotion, he addressed himself in terms of heartbreaking sympathy.