"How much?" inquired the other.

"Well, they won't sell more than two shillings-worth at a time," said the
cook, trying to speak carelessly, "but if you like to let me 'ave the
money, I'll go ashore to the chemist's and get the first lot now."

Mr. Lister's face was a study in emotions, which the other tried in vain
to decipher.

Then he slowly extracted the amount from his trousers-pocket, and handed
it over with-out a word.

"I'll go at once," said the cook, with a little feeling, "and I'll never
take a man at his word again, Jem."

He ran blithely up on deck, and stepping ashore, spat on the coins for
luck and dropped them in his pocket. Down below, Mr. Lister, with his
chin in his hand, sat in a state of mind pretty evenly divided between
rage and fear.

The cook, who was in no mood for company, missed the rest of the crew by
two public-houses, and having purchased a baby's teething powder and
removed the label, had a congratulatory drink or two before going on
board again. A chatter of voices from the forecastle warned him that the
crew had returned, but the tongues ceased abruptly as he descended, and
three pairs of eyes surveyed him in grim silence.

"What's up?" he demanded.

"Wot 'ave you been doin' to poor old Jem?" demanded Henshaw, sternly.