“Well, you’ve done it now,” said Henshaw, when he had finished.  “He’s gone right orf ’is ’ed.”

“Where is he?” inquired the cook.

“Where you can’t follow him,” said the other, slowly.

“Heaven?” hazarded the unfortunate cook.  “No; skipper’s bunk,” said Lea.

“Oh, can’t I foller ’im?” said the cook, starting up.  “I’ll soon ’ave ‘im out o’ that.”

“Better leave ’im alone,” said Henshaw.  “He was that wild we couldn’t do nothing with ‘im, singing an’ larfin’ and crying all together—­I certainly thought he was p’isoned.”

“I’ll swear I ain’t touched him,” said the cook.

“Well, you’ve upset his reason,” said Henshaw; “there’ll be an awful row when the skipper comes aboard and finds ’im in ’is bed.

“‘Well, come an’ ’elp me to get ’im out,” said the cook.

“I ain’t going to be mixed up in it,” said Henshaw, shaking his head.

“Don’t you, Bill,” said the other two.

“Wot the skipper’ll say I don’t know,” said Henshaw; “anyway, it’ll be said to you, not——­”

“I’ll go and get ’im out if ’e was five madmen,” said the cook, compressing his lips.

“You’ll harve to carry ’im out, then,” said Henshaw.  “I don’t wish you no ’arm, cook, and perhaps it would be as well to get ’im out afore the skipper or mate comes aboard.  If it was me, I know what I should do.”

“What?” inquired the cook, breathlessly.

“Draw a sack over his head,” said Henshaw, impressively; “he’ll scream like blazes as soon as you touch him, and rouse the folks ashore if you don’t.  Besides that, if you draw it well down it’ll keep his arms fast.”

The cook thanked him fervently, and routing out a sack, rushed hastily on deck, his departure being the signal for Mr. Henshaw and his friends to make preparations for retiring for the night so hastily as almost to savour of panic.

The cook, after a hasty glance ashore, went softly below with the sack over his arm and felt his way in the darkness to the skipper’s bunk.  The sound of deep and regular breathing reassured him, and without undue haste he opened the mouth of the sack and gently raised the sleeper’s head.

“Eh?  Wha——­” began a sleepy voice.

The next moment the cook had bagged him, and gripping him tightly round the middle, turned a deaf ear to the smothered cries of his victim as he strove to lift him out of the bunk.  In the exciting time which followed, he had more than one reason for thinking that he had caught a centipede.

“Now, you keep still,” he cried, breathlessly.  “I’m not going to hurt you.”

He got his burden out of bed at last, and staggered to the foot of the companion-ladder with it.  Then there was a halt, two legs sticking obstinately across the narrow way and refusing to be moved, while a furious humming proceeded from the other end of the sack.

Four times did the exhausted cook get his shoulder under his burden and try and push it up the ladder, and four times did it wriggle and fight its way down again.  Half crazy with fear and rage, he essayed it for the fifth time, and had got it half-way up when there was a sudden exclamation of surprise from above, and the voice of the mate sharply demanding an explanation.