Well, at first the fellow would answer never a word. At length he muttered that he had been unlucky, very unlucky, but that it was nobody’s fault but his own, and that he would be better off soon. I insisted, however, on knowing what he had done with his clothes, upon which, after a great deal of stammering and hesitation, he plucked up his heart, and said broadly, that I had no business with his clothes, and that, if he chose to wear a clout, or paint himself and go half naked like the savages, it was nothing to me, or to any one else, so long as he did his duty manfully. Just as he was speaking, up came the boatswain, John Clink. ‘Simon Radley,’ says the old fellow, ‘you speak like a fool. It concerns us all, to see our comrades so bestowed as that they shall have the best chance of keeping their health, and not turning sick upon our hands. Now, I know where your clothes are, well. I have had my eye on you for some days past. Your clothes are in George Bell’s chest, with a good quantity of the clothes of the other men as well.’ ‘Hush, hush,’ says Radley, ‘there is honour in these things. If they are in George Bell’s chest, it is because they belong to him.’ ‘But how?’ cries I. ‘Have you sold the clothes, Simon?’ ‘Sold them—no,’ says Clink. ‘He has lost them, or been cheated of them, at dice, with that fellow Bell, who is a sneaking vagabond, and always skulking out of the way, whenever he is wanted.’ I remembered now that I had very often seen Bell playing dice with others of the crew, but had taken no particular notice, such games being very common among privateersmen. ‘And so you have had bad luck, Simon?’ rejoined I. ‘Bad luck,’ interrupted Clink: ‘yes, and most of those have bad luck who play with George Bell.’