All at once, Plummer, whose wheel it was, stepped over the starboard washboard, into the fo’cas’le.

“What’s up, anyway?” he asked.  “Is Williams much ’urt?”

“Sh!” I said.  “You’ll wake the others.  Who’s taken your wheel?”

“Tammy—­ther Second sent ’im. ‘e said I could go forrard an’ ’ave er smoke. ’e said Williams ’ad ’ad er fall.”

He broke off, and looked across the fo’cas’le.

“Where is ’e?” he inquired, in a puzzled voice.

I glanced at the others; but no one seemed inclined to start yarning about it.

“He fell from the t’gallant rigging!” I said.

“Where is ’e?” he repeated.

“Smashed up,” I said.  “He’s lying on the hatch.”

“Dead?” he asked.

I nodded.

“I guessed ‘twere somethin’ pretty bad, when I saw the Old Man come forrard. ’ow did it ’appen?”

He looked round at the lot of us sitting there silent and smoking.

“No one knows,” I said, and glanced at Stubbins.  I caught him eyeing me, doubtfully.

After a moment’s silence, Plummer spoke again.

“I ’eard ’im screech, when I was at ther wheel. ’e must ’ave got ’urt up aloft.”

Stubbins struck a match and proceeded to relight his pipe.

“How d’yer mean?” he asked, speaking for the first time.

“’ow do I mean?  Well, I can’t say.  Maybe ’e jammed ’is fingers between ther parrel an’ ther mast.”

“What about ‘is swearin’ at ther Second Mate?  Was that ’cause ’e’d jammed ’is fingers?” put in Quoin.

“I never ’eard about that,” said Plummer. “’oo ’eard ’im?

“I should think heverybody in ther bloomin’ ship heard him,” Stubbins answered.  “All ther same, I hain’t sure he was swearin’ at ther Second Mate.  I thought at first he’d gone dotty an’ was cussin’ him; but somehow it don’t seem likely, now I come to think.  It don’t stand to reason he should go to cuss ther man.  There was nothin’ to go cussin’ about.  What’s more, he didn’t seem ter be talkin’ down to us on deck—­ what I could make hout. ‘sides, what would he want ter go talkin’ to ther Second about his pay-day?”

He looked across to where I was sitting.  Jock, who was smoking, quietly, on the chest next to me, took his pipe slowly out from between his teeth.

“Ye’re no far oot, Stubbins, I’m thinkin’.  Ye’re no far oot,” he said, nodding his head.

Stubbins still continued to gaze at me.

“What’s your idee?” he said, abruptly.

It may have been my fancy, but it seemed to me that there was something deeper than the mere sense the question conveyed.

I glanced at him.  I couldn’t have said, myself, just what my idea was.

“I don’t know!” I answered, a little adrift.  “He didn’t strike me as cursing at the Second Mate.  That is, I should say, after the first minute.”

“Just what I say,” he replied.  “Another thing—­don’t it strike you as bein’ bloomin’ queer about Tom nearly comin’ down by ther run, an’ then this?”