“I’ve got a touch of the ’art again, lad,” said the elderly invalid, as they sat alone in the forecastle one night at Seacole.

“You move about too much,” said the cook.  “Why not turn in and rest?”

Mr. Lister, who had not expected this, fidgeted.  “I think I’ll go ashore a bit and try the air,” he said, suggestively.  “I’ll just go as far as the Black Horse and back.  You won’t have me long now, my lad.”

“No, I know,” said the cook; “that’s what’s worrying me a bit.”  “Don’t worry about me,” said the old man, pausing with his hand on the other’s shoulder; “I’m not worth it.  Don’t look so glum, lad.”

“I’ve got something on my mind, Jem,” said the cook, staring straight in front of him.

“What is it?” inquired Mr. Lister.

“You know what you told me about those pains in your inside?” said the cook, without looking at him.

Jem groaned and felt his side.

“And what you said about its being a relief to die,” continued the other, “only you was afraid to commit suicide?”

“Well?” said Mr. Lister.

“It used to worry me,” continued the cook, earnestly.  “I used to say to myself, ‘Poor old Jem,’ I ses, ’why should ’e suffer like this when he wants to die?  It seemed ‘ard.’”

“It is ’ard,” said Mr. Lister, “but what about it?”

The other made no reply, but looking at him for the first time, surveyed him with a troubled expression.

“What about it?” repeated Mr. Lister, with some emphasis.

“You did say you wanted to die, didn’t you?” said the cook.  “Now suppose suppose——­”

“Suppose what?” inquired the old man, sharply.  “Why don’t you say what you’re agoing to say?”

“Suppose,” said the cook, “some one what liked you, Jem—­what liked you, mind—­’eard you say this over and over again, an’ see you sufferin’ and ‘eard you groanin’ and not able to do nothin’ for you except lend you a few shillings here and there for medicine, or stand you a few glasses o’ rum; suppose they knew a chap in a chemist’s shop?”

“Suppose they did?” said the other, turning pale.

“A chap what knows all about p’isons,” continued the cook, “p’isons what a man can take without knowing it in ’is grub.  Would it be wrong, do you think, if that friend I was speaking about put it in your food to put you out of your misery?”

“Wrong,” said Mr. Lister, with glassy eyes.  “Wrong.  Look ’ere, cook—­”

“I don’t mean anything to give him pain,” said the other, waving his hand; “you ain’t felt no pain lately, ’ave you, Jem?”

“Do you mean to say” shouted Mr. Lister.

“I don’t mean to say anything,” said the cook.  “Answer my question.  You ain’t felt no pain lately, ’ave you?”

“Have—­you—­been—­putting—­p’ison—­in—­my—­wittles?” demanded Mr. Lister, in trembling accents.

“If I ‘ad, Jem, supposin’ that I ’ad,” said the cook, in accents of reproachful surprise, “do you mean to say that you’d mind?”