“Well, you've got money,” said the cook, “why don't you knock off work now and spend the evenin' of your life ashore? Why should you save up for your relatives?” “I've got no relatives,” said Mr. Lister; “I'm all alone. I s'pose I shall leave my money to some nice young feller, and I hope it'll do 'im good.” With the dazzling thoughts which flashed through the cook's brain the cabbage dropped violently into the saucepan, and a shower of cooling drops fell on both men. “I s'pose you take medicine?” he said, at length. “A little rum,” said Mr. Lister, faintly; “the doctors tell me that it is the only thing that keeps me up—o' course, the chaps down there “—he indicated the forecastle again with a jerk of his head—“accuse me o' taking too much.” “What do ye take any notice of 'em for?” inquired the other, indignantly. “I s'pose it is foolish,” admitted Mr. Lister; “but I don't like being misunderstood. I keep my troubles to myself as a rule, cook. I don't know what's made me talk to you like this. I 'eard the other day you was keeping company with a young woman.” “Well, I won't say as I ain't,” replied the other, busying himself over the fire. “An' the best thing, too, my lad,” said the old man, warmly. “It keeps you stiddy, keeps you out of public-'ouses; not as they ain't good in moderation—I 'ope you'll be 'appy.” The cook thanked him, and noticed that Mr. Lister was fidgeting with a piece of paper. “A little something I wrote the other day,” said the old man, catching his eye. “If I let you see it, will you promise not to tell a soul about it, and not to give me no thanks?” The wondering cook promised, and, the old man being somewhat emphatic on the subject, backed his promise with a home made affidavit of singular power and profanity. “Here it is, then,” said Mr. Lister. The cook took the paper, and as he read the letters danced before him. He blinked his eyes and started again, slowly. In plain black and white and nondescript-coloured finger-marks, Mr. Lister, after a general statement as to his bodily and mental health, left the whole of his estate to the cook. The will was properly dated and witnessed, and the cook's voice shook with excitement and emotion as he offered to hand it back. “I don't know what I've done for you to do this,” he said. Mr. Lister waved it away again. “Keep it,” he said, simply; “while you've got it on you, you'll know it's safe.” From this moment a friendship sprang up between the two men which puzzled the remainder of the crew not a little. The attitude of the cook was as that of a son to a father: the benignancy of Mr. Lister beautiful to behold. It was noticed, too, that he had abandoned the reprehensible practice of hanging round tavern doors in favour of going inside and drinking the cook's health.