“Well, you ’elped me start it,” said the other. “You’re afraid, that’s what you are,—afraid. You can let the boy go down there, but when it comes to yourselves you turn chicken-’arted.” “All right,” said Simpson recklessly, “let Bill ’ave ’is way; cut, cookie.” Sorely against his will the cook complied, and drew a ten; Ned, after much argument, cut and drew seven; Simpson, with a king in his fist, leaned back on the locker and fingered his beard nonchalantly. “Go on, Bill,” he said; “see what you can do.” Bill took the pack and shuffled it “I orter be able to beat seven,” he said slowly. He handed the pack to Ned, drew a card, and the other three sat back and laughed boisterously. “Three!” said Simpson. “Bravo, Bill! I’ll write your letter for you; he’d know your writing. What shall I say?” “Say what you like,” retorted Bill, breathing hard as he thought of the hold. He sat back sneering disdainfully, as the other three merrily sat down to compose his letter, replying only by a contemptuous silence when Simpson asked him whether he wanted any kisses put in. When the letter was handed over for his inspection he only made one remark. “I thought you could write better than that, George,” he said haughtily. “I’m writing it for you,” said Simpson. Bill’s hauteur vanished and he became his old self again. “If you want a plug in the eye, George,” he said feelingly, “you’ve only got to say so, you know.” His temper was so unpleasant that half the pleasure of the evening was spoiled, and instead of being conducted to his hiding-place with quips and light laughter, the proceedings were more like a funeral than anything else. The crowning touch to his ill-nature was furnished by Tommy, who upon coming up and learning that Bill was to be his room-mate, gave way to a fit of the most unfeigned horror. “There’s another letter for you this morning,” said the mate, as the skipper came out of his stateroom buttoning up his waistcoat. “Another what?” demanded the other, turning pale. The mate jerked his thumb upwards. “Old Ned has got it,” he continued. “I can’t think what’s come over the men.” The skipper dashed up on deck, and mechanically took the letter from Ned and read it through. He stood for some time like a man in a dream, and then stumbled down the forecastle, and looked in all the bunks and even under the table; then he came up and stood by the hold, with his head on one side. The men held their breath. “What’s the meaning of all this?” he demanded at length, sitting limply on the hatch, with his eyes down. “Bad grub, sir,” said Simpson, gaining courage from his manner; “that’s what we’ll have to say when we get ashore.” “You’re not to say a word about it!” said the other, firing up. “It’s our dooty, sir,” said Ned impressively.