“You’d ate all your molasses, sir; from last week.” “There was some left in the tin. You’ve been at it again.” “No, sir. I swear I haven’t, sir.” “How many times have I told you I won’t have you swear? Eh? Give me my supplejack.” “Oh, sir, I won’t do it again. I won’t do it again.” “There, my boy. Perhaps that’ll teach you another time. Now go and lay my supper. If you don’t stop howling I’ll give you another six.” The boy went forward howling, to hide in the darkness of the hold, where he could cry by himself, choking with misery and shame, praying for death. If he had had a flint and steel he would have burnt the _Broken Heart_ at her anchor. As he had none, he sobbed himself to sleep, careless of Mr. Harthop’s supper, full of the bleeding, aching misery which none save the wronged child can ever taste to the full. When it was dark and all had gone to bed, he crept aft to the ward-room, where the bread-barge and the case of spirits stood, just as the two mates had left them. He helped himself to bread and rum; for misery had made him reckless. Besides, having defied Mr. Harthop he might as well defy the two mates. So he ate and drank, looking at the light on the landing-stage, which made a golden track to dance. It trembled in yellow flakes on the water, a path of gold, to the blackness of the rudder eddies below him. He was not very sure if he could swim so far; but he did not care. He was too wretched to mind drowning. It was very dark in the wardroom. It was dark above him in the cabin. Below him, the ship’s shadow was dark. He was sure that the watchmen would not see him. They never walked on the poop. After a moment of groping he found the falls of the relieving-tackle, and unrove the raw hide till he had an end ten feet long. He hitched the tackle so that the block should not creak, and paid out the end through the chase-port. Then, as even the most miserable of us will, he felt the misery of leaving. This ship of wretchedness had been a home to him. He remembered the singing in the dog-watch. It was awful to have to go like that. In his wretchedness, a tear or two rolled down his cheek, to splash on the port-sill. A light footstep moved up and down above him. One of the stern-windows of the cabin opened with a little rattle. He heard Stukeley’s voice coming from the state-room drowsily. Then Mrs. Stukeley spoke from overhead. “It’s such a beautiful night, Tom. Do come and see the stars. They’re wonderful. Wonderful. Come and see them, Tom dear.” “You’ll catch your death of cold.” “Bow-wow-wow. What an old bear. I shan’t. I’ve got on my dressing-gown.” “Thanks. I prefer my bed.”