Their council was interrupted by the mysterious behaviour of the cook, who, having gone out to lay in a stock of bread, suddenly broke in upon them more in the manner of a member of a secret society than a humble but useful unit of a ship’s company. “Where’s the cap’n?” he asked in a hoarse whisper, as he took a seat on the locker with the sack of bread between his knees. “In the cabin,” said Sam, regarding his antics with some disfavour. “What’s wrong, cookie?” “What d’ yer think I’ve got in here?” asked the cook, patting the bag. The obvious reply to this question was, of course, bread; but as it was known that the cook had departed specially to buy some, and that he could hardly ask a question involving such a simple answer, nobody gave it. “It come to me all of a sudden,” said the cook, in a thrilling whisper. “I’d just bought the bread and left the shop, when I see a big black cat, the very image of ours, sitting on a doorstep. I just stooped down to stroke its ’ed, when it come to me.” “They will sometimes,” said one of the seamen. “I don’t mean that,” said the cook, with the contempt of genius. “I mean the idea did. Ses I to myself, ‘You might be old Satan’s brother by the look of you; an’ if the cap’n wants to kill a cat, let it be you,’ I ses. And with that, before it could say Jack Robinson, I picked it up by the scruff o’ the neck and shoved it in the bag.” “What, all in along of our bread?” said the previous interrupter, in a pained voice. “Some of yer are ’ard ter please,” said the cook, deeply offended. “Don’t mind him, cook,” said the admiring Sam. “You’re a masterpiece, that’s what you are.” “Of course, if any of you’ve got a better plan”—said the cook generously. “Don’t talk rubbish, cook,” said Sam; “fetch the two cats out and put ’em together.” “Don’t mix ’em,” said the cook warningly; “for you’ll never know which is which agin if you do.” He cautiously opened the top of the sack and produced his captive, and Satan, having been relieved from his prison, the two animals were carefully compared. “They’re as like as two lumps o’ coal,” said Sam slowly. “Lord, what a joke on the old man. I must tell the mate o’ this; he’ll enjoy it.” “It’ll be all right if the parrot don’t die,” said the dainty pessimist, still harping on his pet theme. “All that bread spoilt, and two cats aboard.” “Don’t mind what he ses,” said Sam; “you’re a brick, that’s what you are. I’ll just make a few holes in the lid o’ the boy’s chest, and pop old Satan in. You don’t mind, do you, Billy?” “Of course he don’t,” said the other men indignantly. Matters being thus agreeably arranged, Sam got a gimlet, and prepared the chest for the reception of its tenant, who, convinced that he was being put out of the way to make room for a rival, made a frantic fight for freedom.