“Looking for the body,” said the mate. “Ain’t you heard us shouting? It’s not my fault—the crew say they won’t leave the spot while there’s half a chance.” “Blast the crew,” said the skipper, quite untouched by this devotion. “Ain’t you taking charge o’ the ship?” “Joe’s about half mad,” said the mate. “It’s wonderful how upset he is.” The skipper cursed Joe separately, and the mate, whose temper was getting bad, closed the interview by locking the door. At five o’clock, by which time they had chased three masses of weed and a barnacle-covered plank, they abandoned the search and resumed the voyage. A gloom settled on the forecastle, and the cook took advantage of the occasion to read Tim a homily upon the shortness of life and the suddenness of death. Tim was much affected, but not nearly so much as he was when he discovered that the men were going to pay a last tribute to the late captain’s memory by abstaining from breakfast. He ventured to remark that the excitement and the night air had made him feel very hungry, and was promptly called an unfeeling little brute by the men for his pains. The mate, who, in deference to public opinion, had to keep up appearances the same way, was almost as much annoyed as Tim, and, as for the drowned man himself, his state of mind was the worst of all. He was so ungrateful that the mate at length lost his temper and when dinner was served allowed a latent sense of humour to have full play. It consisted of boiled beef, with duff, carrots, and potatoes, and its grateful incense filled the cabin. The mate attacked it lustily listening between mouthfuls for any interruption from the state-room. At length, unable to endure it any longer, the prisoner ventured to scratch lightly on the door. “Hist!” said the mate, in a whisper. The scratching ceased, and the mate, grinning broadly, resumed his dinner. He finished at last, and lighting his pipe sat back easily in the locker watching the door out of the corner of his eye. With hunger at his vitals the unfortunate skipper, hardly able to believe his ears, heard the cook come down and clear away. The smell of dinner gave way to that of tobacco, and the mate, having half finished his pipe, approached the door. “Are you there?” he asked, in a whisper. “Of course I am, you fool!” said the skipper, wrathfully; “where’s my dinner?” “I’m very sorry,” began the mate, in a whisper. “What?” enquired the skipper, fiercely. “I’ve mislaid the key,” said the mate, grinning fiendishly, “an’, what’s more, I can’t think what I’ve done with it.” At this intelligence, the remnants of the skipper’s temper vanished, and every bad word he had heard of, or read of, or dreamt of, floated from his hungry lips in frenzied whispers. “I can’t hear what you say,” said the mate. “What?” The prisoner was about to repeat his remarks with a few embellishments, when the mate stopped him with one little word. “Hist!” he said, quietly.