“It ’ud ha’ been no good,” ses the cook, smiling and shaking his ’ead. “Wot I see must ’appen. I on’y see the future, and that must be.” “But you stood there watching me chucking the bottle about,” ses Ted, getting out of ’is bunk. “Why didn’t you stop me?” “You don’t understand,” ses the cook. “If you’d ’ad more eddication—” He didn’t ’ave time to say any more afore Ted was on him, and cookie, being no fighter, ’ad to cook with one eye for the next two or three days. He kept quiet about ’is dreams for some time arter that, but it was no good, because George Hall, wot was a firm believer, gave ’im a licking for not warning ’im of a sprained ankle he got skylarking, and Bob Law took it out of ’im for not telling ’im that he was going to lose ’is suit of shore-going togs at cards. [Illustration: “‘Why didn’t you tell me, then?’ ses Ted.”] The only chap that seemed to show any good feeling for the cook was a young feller named Joseph Meek, a steady young chap wot was goin’ to be married to old Bill Foster’s niece as soon as we got ’ome. Nobody else knew it, but he told the cook all about it on the quiet. He said she was too good for ’im, but, do all he could, he couldn’t get her to see it. “My feelings ’ave changed,” he ses. “P’r’aps they’ll change agin,” ses the cook, trying to comfort ’im. Joseph shook his ’ead. “No, I’ve made up my mind,” he ses, very slow. “I’m young yet, and, besides, I can’t afford it; but ’ow to get out of it I don’t know. Couldn’t you ’ave a dream agin it for me?” “Wot d’ye mean?” ses the cook, firing up. “Do you think I make my dreams up?” “No, no; cert’inly not,” ses Joseph, patting ’im on the shoulder; “but couldn’t you do it just for once? ’Ave a dream that me and Emily are killed a few days arter the wedding. Don’t say in wot way, ’cos she might think we could avoid it; just dream we are killed. Bill’s always been a superstitious man, and since you dreamt about his leg he’d believe anything; and he’s that fond of Emily I believe he’d ’ave the wedding put off, at any rate—if I put him up to it.” It took ’im three days and a silver watch-chain to persuade the cook, but he did at last; and one arternoon, when old Bill, who was getting on fust-class, was resting ’is leg in ’is bunk, the cook went below and turned in for a quiet sleep. For ten minutes he was as peaceful as a lamb, and old Bill, who ’ad been laying in ’is bunk with an eye open watching ’im, was just dropping off ’imself, when the cook began to talk in ’is sleep, and the very fust words made Bill sit up as though something ’ad bit ’im. “There they go,” ses the cook, “Emily Foster and Joseph Meek—and there’s old Bill, good old Bill, going to give the bride away. How ’appy they all look, especially Joseph!” Old Bill put his ’and to his ear and leaned out of his bunk. “There they go,” ses the cook agin; “but wot is that ’orrible black thing with claws that’s ’anging over Bill?”