“I don’t know what’s to be done,” groaned the skipper despondently.  “I shall be dead afore we get to port this wind holds.  Go down and get me something to eat George; I’m starving.”

“Everything’s locked up, as I told you afore,” said the mate.

“As the master of this ship,” said the skipper, drawing himself up, “I order you to go down and get me something to eat.  You can tell the missus it’s for you if she says anything.”

“I’m hanged if I will,” said the mate sturdily.  “Why don’t you go down and have it out with her like a man?  She can’t eat you.”

“I’m not going to,” said the other shortly.  “I’m a determined man, and when I say a thing I mean it.  It’s going to be broken to her gradual, as I said; I don’t want her to be scared, poor thing.”

“I know who’d be scared the most,” murmured the mate.

The skipper looked at him fiercely, and then sat down wearily on the hatches with his hands between his knees, rising, after a time, to get the dipper and drink copiously from the water-cask.  Then, replacing it with a sigh, he bade the mate a surly good-night and went below.

To his dismay he found when he awoke in the morning that what little wind there was had dropped in the night, and the billy-boy was just rising and falling lazily on the water in a fashion most objectionable to an empty stomach.  It was the last straw, and he made things so uncomfortable below that the crew were glad to escape on deck, where they squatted down in the bows, and proceeded to review a situation which was rapidly becoming unbearable.

“I’ve ’ad enough of it, Joe,” grumbled the boy.  “I’m sore all over with sleeping on the floor, and the old man’s temper gets wuss and wuss.  I’m going to be ill.”

“Whaffor?” queried Joe dully.

“You tell the missus I’m down below ill.  Say you think I’m dying,” responded the infant Machiavelli, “then you’ll see somethink if you keep your eyes open.”

He went below again, not without a little nervousness, and, clambering into Joe’s bunk, rolled over on his back and gave a deep groan.

“What’s the matter with you!” growled the skipper, who was lying in the other bunk staving off the pangs of hunger with a pipe.

“I’m very ill—­dying,” said Jemmy, with another groan.

“You’d better stay in bed and have your breakfast brought down here, then,” said the skipper kindly.

“I don’t want no breakfast,” said Jem faintly.

“That’s no reason why you shouldn’t have it sent down, you unfeeling little brute,” said the skipper indignantly.  “You tell Joe to bring you down a great plate o’ cold meat and pickles, and some coffee; that’s what you want.”

“All right, sir,” said Jemmy.  “I hope they won’t let the missus come down here, in case it’s something catching.  I wouldn’t like her to be took bad.”

“Eh?” said the skipper, in alarm.  “Certainly not.  Here, you go up and die on deck.  Hurry up with you.”