e we heard they was a grand cotch o' fish, all dry an' waitin'
for the first trader t' pick it up. They'd the smallpox there, sir,
accordin' t' rumour; but we wasn't afeard o' cotchin' it--thinkin' we'd
not cotched it at Poor Luck Harbour--an' sailed right in t' do the
tradin'. We had the last quintal aboard at noon o' the next day; an' we
shook out the canvas an' laid a course t' the nor'ard, with a fair,
light wind. We was well out from shore when the skipper an' me went down
t' the forecastle t' have a cup o' tea with the cook; an' we was hard at
it when Tommy Mib hung his head out of his bunk.

"'Skipper,' says he, in a sick sort o' whisper, 'I'm took.'

"'What's took you?' says the skipper.

"'Skipper,' says he, 'I--I'm--took.'

"'What's took you, you fool?' says the skipper.

"Poor Tommy fell back in his bunk. 'Skipper,' he whines, 'I've cotched
it!'

"''Tis the smallpox, sir,' says I. 'I seed the spots.'

"'No such nonsense!' says the skipper. ''Tis the measles. That's what
_he've_ got. Jagger an' me says so.'

"'But Jagger ain't here,' says I.

"'Never you mind about that,' says he. 'I knows what Jagger thinks.'

"When we put into Harbour Grand we knowed it wasn't no measles. When we
dropped anchor there, sir, _we knowed what 'twas_. Believe _me_, sir, we
_knowed_ what 'twas. The cook he up an' says he ain't afraid o' no
smallpox, but he'll be sunk for a coward afore he'll go down the
forecastle ladder agin. An' the second hand he says he likes a bunk in
the forecastle when he can have one comfortable, but he've no objection
t' the hold _at times_. 'Then, lads,' says the skipper, 'you'll not be
meanin' t' look that way agin,' says he, with a snaky little glitter in
his eye. 'An' if you do, you'll find a fist about the heft o' _that_,'
says he, shakin' his hand, 't' kiss you at the foot o' the ladder.'
After that the cook an' the second hand slep' in the hold, an' them an'
me had a snack o' grub at odd times in the cabin, where I had a hammock
slung, though the place was wonderful crowded with goods. 'Twas the
skipper that looked after Tommy Mib. 'Twas the skipper that sailed the
ship, too,--drove her like he'd always done: all the time eatin' an'
sleepin' in the forecastle, where poor Tommy Mib lay sick o' the
smallpox. But we o' the crew kep' our distance when the ol' man was on
deck; an' they was no rush for'ard t' tend the jib an' stays'l when it
was 'Hard a-lee!' in a beat t' win'ard--no rush at a