The skipper went forward grumbling.  “Send down a good breakfast, George,” said he.

To his great discomfort the mate suddenly gave a low whistle, and regarded him with a look of blank dismay.

“Good gracious!” he cried, “I forgot all about it.  Here’s a pretty kettle of fish—­well, well.”

“Forgot about what?” asked the skipper uneasily.

“The crew take their meals in the cabin now,” replied the mate, “’cos the missis says it’s more cheerful for ’em, and she’s l’arning ’em to eat their wittles properly.”

The skipper looked at him aghast.  “You’ll have to smuggle me up some grub,” he said at length.  “I’m not going to starve for nobody.”

“Easier said than done,” said the mate.  “The missis has got eyes like needles; still, I’ll do the best I can for you.  Look out!  Here she comes.”

The skipper fled hastily, and, safe down below, explained to the crew how they were to secrete portions of their breakfast for his benefit.  The amount of explanation required for so simple a matter was remarkable, the crew manifesting a denseness which irritated him almost beyond endurance.  They promised, however, to do the best they could for him, and returned in triumph after a hearty meal, and presented their enraged commander with a few greasy crumbs and the tail of a bloater.

For the next two days the wind was against them, and they made but little progress.  Mrs. Harbolt spent most of her time on deck, thereby confining her husband to his evil-smelling quarters below.  Matters were not improved for him by his treatment of the crew, who, resenting his rough treatment of them, were doing their best to starve him into civility.  Most of the time he kept in his bunk—­or rather Jemmy’s bunk—­ a prey to despondency and hunger of an acute type, venturing on deck only at night to prowl uneasily about and bemoan his condition.

On the third night Mrs. Harbolt was later in retiring than usual, and it was nearly midnight before the skipper, who had been indignantly waiting for her to go, was able to get on deck and hold counsel with the mate.

“I’ve done what I could for you,” said the latter, fishing a crust from his pocket, which Harbolt took thankfully.  “I’ve told her all the yarns I could think of about people turning up after they was buried and the like.”

“What’d she say?” queried the skipper eagerly, between his bites.

“Told me not to talk like that,” said the mate; “said it showed a want o’ trust in Providence to hint at such things.  Then I told her what you asked me about the locket, only I made it a bracelet worth ten pounds.”

“That pleased her?” suggested the other hopefully.

The mate shook his head.  “She said I was a born fool to believe you’d been robbed of it,” he replied.  “She said what you’d done was to give it to one o’ them pore females.  She’s been going on frightful about it all the afternoon—­won’t talk o’ nothing else.”