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“Suppose this woman comes aboard after pore George,” said Thomsett. “What’s the best thing to be done?”

“The first thing,” said Captain Stubbs, “is to gain time. Put her off.”

“Off the ship, d’ye mean?” inquired the other.

“No, no,” said the jurist “Pretend he’s ill and can’t see anybody. By gum, I’ve got it.”

He slapped the table with his open hand, and regarded the other triumphantly.

“Let him turn into his bunk and pretend to be dead,” he continued, in a voice trembling with pride at his strategy. “It’s pretty dark down your foc’sle, I know. Don’t have no light down there, and tell him to keep quiet.”

Captain Thomsett’s eyes shone, but with a qualified admiration.

“Ain’t it somewhat sudden?” he demurred.

Captain Stubbs regarded him with a look of supreme artfulness, and slowly closed one eye.

“He got a chill going in the water,” he said quietly.

“Well, you’re a masterpiece,” said Thomsett ungrudgingly. “I will say this of you, you’re a masterpiece. Mind this is all to be kept quite secret.”

“Make your mind easy,” said the eminent jurist. “If I told all I know there’s a good many men in this river as ‘ud be doing time at the present moment.”

Captain Thomsett expressed his pleasure at this information, and, having tried in vain to obtain a few of their names, even going so far as to suggest some, looked at the clock, and, shaking hands, departed to his own ship. Captain Stubbs, left to himself, finished his pipe and retired to rest; and his mate, who had been lying in the adjoining bunk during the consultation, vainly trying to get to sleep, scratched his head, and tried to think of a little strategy himself. He had glimmerings of it before he fell asleep, but when he awoke next morning it flashed before him in all the fulness of its matured beauty.

He went on deck smiling, and, leaning his arms on the side, gazed contemplatively at George, who was sitting on the deck listening darkly to the cook as that worthy read aloud from a newspaper.

“Anything interesting, cook?” demanded the mate.

“About George, sir,” said the cook, stopping in his reading. “There’s pictures of ‘im too.”

He crossed to the side, and, handing the paper to the mate, listened smilingly to the little ejaculations of surprise and delight of that deceitful man as he gazed upon the likenesses. “Wonderful,” he said emphatically. “Wonderful. I never saw such a good likeness in my life, George. That’ll be copied in every newspaper in London, and here’s the name in full too–‘George Cooper, schooner John Henry, now lying off Limehouse.'”

He handed the paper back to the cook and turned away grinning as George, unable to control himself any longer, got up with an oath and went below to nurse his wrath in silence. A little later the mate of the brig, after a very confidential chat with his own crew, lit his pipe and, with a jaunty air, went ashore.

For the next hour or two George alternated between the foc’sle and the deck, from whence he cast harassed glances at the busy wharves ashore. The skipper, giving it as his own suggestion, acquainted him with the arrangements made in case of the worst, and George, though he seemed somewhat dubious about them, went below and put his bed in order.

“It’s very unlikely she’ll see that particular newspaper though,” said the skipper encouragingly.

“People are sure to see what you don’t want ’em to,” growled George. “Somebody what knows us is sure to see it, an’ show ‘er.”

“There’s a lady stepping into a waterman’s skiff now,” said the skipper, glancing at the stairs. “That wouldn’t be her, I s’pose?”

He turned to the seaman as he spoke, but the words had hardly left his lips before George was going below and undressing for his part.

“If anybody asks for me,” he said, turning to the cook, who was regarding his feverish movements in much astonishment, “I’m dead.”