ur, is it?' says the skipper. 'An' is that where they've
the--the--smallpox?' says he. 'We'll lay a course for Poor Luck Harbour
the morrow. I'll prove 'tis the chicken-pox or eat the man that has it.'
So the cook--the skipper havin' the eyes he had--says _he_ ain't afraid
o' no smallpox, but he knows what'll come of it if the crew gets
ashore.

"'Ho, ho! cook,' says the skipper. '_You'll_ go ashore along o' _me_, me
boy.'

"The next day we laid a course for Poor Luck Harbour, with a fair wind;
an' we dropped anchor in the cove that night. In the mornin', sure
enough, the skipper took the cook an' the first hand ashore t' show un a
man with the chicken-pox; but I was kep' aboard takin' in fish, for such
was the evil name the place had along o' the smallpox that we was the
only trader in the harbour, an' had all the fish we could handle.

"'Skipper,' says I, when they come aboard, '_is_ it the smallpox?'

"'Docks, b'y,' says he, lookin' me square in the eye, 'you never yet
heard me take back my words. I _said_ I'd eat the man that had it. But I
tells you what, b'y, I ain't hankerin' after a bite o' what I seed!'

"'We'll be liftin' anchor an' gettin' t' sea, then,' says I; for it made
me shiver t' hear the skipper talk that way.

"'Docks, b'y,' says he, 'we'll be liftin' anchor when we gets all the
fish they is. Jagger,' says he, 'wants fish, an' I'm the boy t' get un.
When the last one's weighed an' stowed, we'll lift anchor an' out; but
not afore.'

"We was three days out from Poor Luck Harbour, tradin' Kiddle Tickle,
when Tommy Mib, the first hand, took a suddent chill. 'Tommy, b'y,' says
the cook, 'you cotched cold stowin' the jib in the squall day afore
yesterday. I'll be givin' _you_ a dose o' pain-killer an' pepper.' So
the cook give Tommy a wonderful dose o' pain-killer an' pepper an' put
un t' bed. But 'twas not long afore Tommy had a pain in the back an' a
burnin' headache. 'Tommy, b'y,' says the cook, 'you'll be gettin' the
inflammation, I'm thinkin'. I'll have t' put a plaster o' mustard an'
red pepper on _your_ chest.' So the cook put a wonderful large plaster
o' mustard an' red pepper on poor Tommy's chest, an' told un t' lie
quiet. Then Tommy got wonderful sick--believe _me_, sir, wonderful sick!
An' the cook could do no more, good cook though he was.

"'Tommy,' says he, 'you got something I don't know nothin' about.'

"'Twas about that time that we up with the anchor an' run t' Hollow
Cove, wher