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“One ‘undered and ninety pounds!” repeated the cook, with awe.

“To say nothing of other things,” continued Mr. Lister, with joyful appreciation of the effect he was producing. “Altogether I’ve got a little over four ‘undered pounds.”

The cook gasped, and with gentle firmness took the cabbage from him as being unfit work for a man of such wealth.

“It’s very nice,” he said, slowly. “It’s very nice. You’ll be able to live on it in your old age.”

Mr. Lister shook his head mournfully, and his eyes became humid.

“There’s no old age for me,” he said, sadly; “but you needn’t tell them,” and he jerked his thumb towards the forecastle.

“No, no,” said the cook.

“I’ve never been one to talk over my affairs,” said Mr. Lister, in a low voice. “I’ve never yet took fancy enough to anybody so to do. No, my lad, I’m saving up for somebody else.”

“What are you going to live on when you’re past work then?” demanded the other.

Mr. Lister took him gently by the sleeve, and his voice sank with the solemnity of his subject: “I’m not going to have no old age,” he said, resignedly.

“Not going to live!” repeated the cook, gazing uneasily at a knife by his side. “How do you know?”

“I went to a orsepittle in London,” said Mr. Lister. “I’ve been to two or three altogether, while the money I’ve spent on doctors is more than I like to think of, and they’re all surprised to think that I’ve lived so long. I’m so chock-full o’ complaints, that they tell me I can’t live more than two years, and I might go off at any moment.”

“Well, you’ve got money,” said the cook, “why don’t you knock off work now and spend the evenin’ of your life ashore? Why should you save up for your relatives?”

“I’ve got no relatives,” said Mr. Lister; “I’m all alone. I ‘spose I shall leave my money to some nice young feller, and I hope it’ll do ‘im good.”

With the dazzling thoughts which flashed through the cook’s brain the cabbage dropped violently into the saucepan, and a shower of cooling drops fell on both men.

“I ‘spose you take medicine?” he said, at length.

“A little rum,” said Mr. Lister, faintly; “the doctors tell me that it is the only thing that keeps me up–o’ course, the chaps down there “–he indicated the forecastle again with a jerk of his head–“accuse me o’ taking too much.”

“What do ye take any notice of ’em for?” inquired the other, indignantly.

“I ‘spose it is foolish,” admitted Mr. Lister; “but I don’t like being misunderstood. I keep my troubles to myself as a rule, cook. I don’t know what’s made me talk to you like this. I ‘eard the other day you was keeping company with a young woman.”

“Well, I won’t say as I ain’t,” replied the other, busying himself over the fire.

“An’ the best thing, too, my lad,” said the old man, warmly. “It keeps you stiddy, keeps you out of public-‘ouses; not as they ain’t good in moderation–I ‘ope you’ll be ‘appy.”

A friendship sprang up between the two men which puzzled the remainder of the crew not a little.

The cook thanked him, and noticed that Mr. Lister was fidgeting with a piece of paper.

“A little something I wrote the other day,” said the old man, catching his eye. “If I let you see it, will you promise not to tell a soul about it, and not to give me no thanks?”

The wondering cook promised, and, the old man being somewhat emphatic on the subject, backed his promise with a home made affidavit of singular power and profanity.

“Here it is, then,” said Mr. Lister.

The cook took the paper, and as he read the letters danced before him. He blinked his eyes and started again, slowly. In plain black and white and nondescript-coloured finger-marks, Mr. Lister, after a general statement as to his bodily and mental health, left the whole of his estate to the cook. The will was properly dated and witnessed, and the cook’s voice shook with excitement and emotion as he offered to hand it back.