“You ain’t been p’isoning ’im?” demanded Henshaw.

“Certainly not,” said the cook, emphatically.

“He ses you told ’im you p’isoned ’im,” said Henshaw, solemnly, “and ’e give you two shillings to get something to cure ’im.  It’s too late now.”

“What?” stammered the bewildered cook.  He looked round anxiously at the men.

They were all very grave, and the silence became oppressive. 
“Where is he?” he demanded.

Henshaw and the others exchanged glances.  “He’s gone mad,” said he, slowly.

“Mad?” repeated the horrified cook, and, seeing the aversion of the crew, in a broken voice he narrated the way in which he had been victimized.

“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.