“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?”

“MIND,” said Mr. Lister, with fervour.  “I’d ’ave you ’ung!”

“But you said you wanted to die,” said the surprised cook.

Mr. Lister swore at him with startling vigour.  “I’ll ’ave you ’ung,” he repeated, wildly.

“Me,” said the cook, artlessly.  “What for?”

“For giving me p’ison,” said Mr. Lister, frantically.  “Do you think you can deceive me by your roundabouts?  Do you think I can’t see through you?”

The other with a sphinx-like smile sat unmoved.  “Prove it,” he said, darkly.  “But supposin’ if anybody ‘ad been givin’ you p’ison, would you like to take something to prevent its acting?”

“I’d take gallons of it,” said Mr. Lister, feverishly.

The other sat pondering, while the old man watched him anxiously.  “It’s a pity you don’t know your own mind, Jem,” he said, at length; “still, you know your own business best.  But it’s very expensive stuff.”

“How much?” inquired the other.

“Well, they won’t sell more than two shillings-worth at a time,” said the cook, trying to speak carelessly, “but if you like to let me ’ave the money, I’ll go ashore to the chemist’s and get the first lot now.”

Mr. Lister’s face was a study in emotions, which the other tried in vain to decipher.

Then he slowly extracted the amount from his trousers-pocket, and handed it over with-out a word.

“I’ll go at once,” said the cook, with a little feeling, “and I’ll never take a man at his word again, Jem.”

He ran blithely up on deck, and stepping ashore, spat on the coins for luck and dropped them in his pocket.  Down below, Mr. Lister, with his chin in his hand, sat in a state of mind pretty evenly divided between rage and fear.

The cook, who was in no mood for company, missed the rest of the crew by two public-houses, and having purchased a baby’s teething powder and removed the label, had a congratulatory drink or two before going on board again.  A chatter of voices from the forecastle warned him that the crew had returned, but the tongues ceased abruptly as he descended, and three pairs of eyes surveyed him in grim silence.

“What’s up?” he demanded.

“Wot ‘ave you been doin’ to poor old Jem?” demanded Henshaw, sternly.

“Nothin’,” said the other, shortly.