On the way back to London a sum in simple proportion, set by Joe, helped to exercise the minds of the crew in the rare intervals which the new mate allowed them for relaxation: “If Ben was bad on the fust v’y’ge, and much wuss on the second, wot ’ud he be like on the tenth?” All agreed that the answer would require a lot of working. They tarred the rigging, stropped the blocks, and in monkey-like attitudes scraped the masts. Even the cook received a little instruction in his art, and estranged the affections of all hands by a “three-decker,” made under Ben’s personal supervision. The secret society discussed the matter for some time in vain. The difficulty was not so much in inventing modes of retaliation as in finding some bold spirit to carry them out. In vain did the president allot tasks to his admiring followers, preceded by excellent reasons why he should not perform them himself. The only one who showed any spirit at all was Tim, and he, being ordered to spill a little tar carelessly from aloft, paid so much attention to the adverb that Joe half killed him when he came down again. Then Mr. William Green, having learnt that the mate was unable to read, did wonders with a piece of chalk and the frying pan, which he hung barometer fashion outside the galley when the skipper was below, the laughter of the delighted crew bearing witness to the success of his efforts, laughter which became almost uncontrollable as the mate, with as stately an air as he could assume, strode towards the galley and brought up in front of the frying-pan. “Wot’s all that, cook?” he demanded, pointing to the writing. “Wot, sir?” asked the innocent. “On the frying-pan,” replied Ben, scowling. “That’s chalk-marks,” explained the cook, “to clean it with.” “It looks to me like writing,” snapped the mate. “Lor, no, sir,” said the cook, with a superior smile. “I say it does,” said Ben, stamping. “Well, o’ course you know best, sir,” said the cook, humbly. “I ain’t nothing of a scholard myself. If it’s writing, wot does it say, please?” “I don’t say it is writing,” growled the old man. “I say it looks like it.” “I can assure you you’re mistook, sir,” said the cook, blandly; “you see, I clean the sorsepans the same way. I only ’eard of it lately. Look ’ere.” He placed the articles in question upside down in a row on the deck, and Tim, reading the legends inscribed thereon, and glancing from them to the mate, was hastily led below in an overwrought condition by the flattered Mr. Green. “Cook,” said the mate, ferociously. “Sir,” said the other. “I won’t ’ave the sorsepans cleaned that way. “No, sir,” said the cook, respectfully, “it does make ’em larf, don’t it, sir, though I can’t see wot they’re larfing at any more than wot you can.”