LITMIR.BIZ

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looked at the gal’d mike a cod sick, but yer carn’t ’elp yer fice when yer feels that way. Mindjer, some of ’em could do with a duckin’. That Lord Wot’s-’is-nime wot’s orl mide in one piece. ’E’d brike if yer bent ’im. And that there greasy bloke I seen torkin’ to ’im. I’ll bet ’e’s a mess fust thing in the mornin’! If ’e was ter go ter the bottom, the bottom ’d git a fright and come up ter the top. But—well, Gawd mide ’im, so there yer are—’

      A voice in his ear made him jump. He jumped into the chest of the Chief Engineer. The Chief Engineer’s chest was the size of Ben altogether.

      ‘What’s the matter with you?’ inquired the Chief Engineer, picking the population off his chest.

      ‘Oo?’ blinked Ben.

      ‘Do you feel as green as you look?’ demanded the Chief Engineer.

      ‘Yus,’ answered Ben.

      ‘If you can’t stand a bit of weather, why did you come on this trip?’

      ‘Well, the doctor ses I orter ’ave a bit o’ sunshine.’

      ‘Don’t be cheeky, my man!’

      ‘Oo’s wot?’

      ‘I’ve had my eye on you for some time, and I’m asking you why you came on this trip?’

      ‘Gawd knows!’

      ‘Do you call that an answer?’

      ‘Oh. Well, it was like this, see? Second Engineer engiged me. “Bill’s ill,” ’e ses. “Ben’s ’ere,” I ses. “’Oo’s Ben?” ’e ses. “I am,” I ses. “I shouldn’t ’ave thort you was anything,” ’e ses. “Life’s full o’ surprises,” I ses, “once I fahnd a currant in a bun. Give us a charnce,” I ses, “I’ve walked orl the way from the nearest pub.” Mide ’im larf. That’s the on’y way I can do it. Mike ’em larf. Like Pelligacharchi. You know, the bloke in the hopera. I seed it once. Lumme, them singers fair split yer ears.’

      ‘Do you know what you’re talking about?’

      ‘No.’

      The Chief Engineer stared at Ben very hard. Like many before him, he couldn’t quite make Ben out.

      ‘Have you ever seen a louse?’ he asked.

      Ben stared back and got ready for it.

      ‘Not afore I see you,’ he muttered.

      The Chief Engineer’s fist on Ben’s chest made a deeper impression than the whole of Ben on the Chief Engineer’s chest. Ben sat down and counted some stars.

      ‘I sed somethin’ was goin’ ter ’appen,’ he muttered, ‘but it don’t matter, ’cos this ain’t it. You’ll be goin’ dahn, too, in a minit!’

      ‘Oh! Will I?’

      ‘Yus. The ’ole boat’s goin’ dahn. I knows ’cos me knuckles is hitchin’.’

      ‘Of course, this fellow’s mad,’ said the Chief Engineer.

      He took a deep breath. He was sorry he had lost his control for a moment, but he couldn’t say so with four stripes on his sleeve. It was the nervy atmosphere. Everybody was nervy. He stretched out his hand and hoiked Ben up again, and something real or imagined in his attitude gave the little stoker a sudden and embarrassing disposition to cry.

      ‘That’s orl right, sir,’ he mumbled, ‘on’y it’s true, see? I ain’t kiddin’ yer, and some-un orter tell the Captain afore it’s too late.’

      ‘Tell the Captain?’ frowned the Chief Engineer.

      ‘Yus.’

      ‘Tell him what?’

      ‘That me knuckles is hitchin’.’

      The Chief Engineer shook him.

      ‘If they go on itching, report to the Second Engineer, and ask him if you should report to the Doctor. Meanwhile, get some stuffing into you and remember you’re a bit of the British Empire!’

      ‘Yus, a lot the British Hempire’s done fer me!’ thought Ben, as the Chief Engineer departed.

      Report to the Second Engineer? He had already done that. Report to the Doctor? No, thanks! If you weren’t ill what was the use? And if you were ill you died of fright knowing …! But what about reporting to the Captain?

      As Ben stared at his knuckles, which were not even soothed by the portions of ocean that periodically splashed on to them, the audacious idea grew. Report to the Captain—direct! Give him the red light! And then, when the ship had been saved through the warning of a little stoker whom everybody trod on, perhaps people would stop treading on him, and they might even erect a statue of him over the Houses of Parliament.

      ‘Little Ben on top o’ Big Ben!’ reflected the lesser of the two. ‘Coo, that’d put the hother sights o’ Lunnon in the shide!’

      He glanced furtively around him. Nobody about. He glanced towards the companion-way that led for’ard up to the boat deck. He shook his head.

      ‘No!’ he said.

      Then he thought of the pretty girl in the blue frock. ‘Fancy ’er torkin’ ter me!’ he reflected. ‘“Doncher find it ’ot ’ere?” she ses, and then I ses, “’Ot as ches’nuts,” I ses, and then she larfs. Nice larf. It’d be a pity …’

      He moved towards the companion-way. It is to be remembered that Ben believed implicitly in his knuckles.

       2

       Something Happens

      To walk from a well-deck to a Captain’s quarters is ordinarily quite a simple job, but the difference between a journey you may make and a journey you may not is abysmal. The latter is ten times as long, and ten times as difficult.

      Ben’s difficulties were increased by the unusual rolling of the ship. Although he had spent many years in the merchant service he had never permanently discovered his sea legs. Sometimes they obeyed the oceanic instinct, at other times they did not, and this was one of the other times. Twice before he completed the first stage of the journey to the companion-way he shortened his left leg when he ought to have lengthened it, and thrice he lengthened his right leg when he ought to have shortened it. The result was dislocating to joints, and he arrived at the companion-way playing for safety, with both legs shortened.

      Then he paused. A hurrying figure appeared on the ladder above him. Still squatting, he watched it descend and materialise into the Doctor.

      ‘Are you the fellow who’s come out in spots?’ demanded the Doctor brusquely.

      ‘No, sir,’ replied Ben. ‘That’s Jim—but they ain’t nothing.’

      ‘How do you know?’

      ‘’E ’as ’em in ’ealth.’

      ‘Thanks for the information, my man, but I’ll do my own diagnosing, if you don’t mind.’ Ben didn’t mind. He had no idea what diagnosing was, but it sounded nasty. ‘What are you supposed to be doing?’

      ‘Eh? Oh! Restin’.’

      ‘Ah—not practising a Russian dance! Well, take my advice and rest under cover, or you’ll be washed overboard!’

      The Doctor proceeded on his way, and Ben proceeded on his. But at the top of the companion-way he shot into another figure. Lord What’s-his-name, the man who found it difficult to bend. As they regained their breath they regarded each other from opposite angles. This was the first, and least

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