“Oh, we’ll let him go before it’s time to cook supper. Get the irons, Roy.”
“Where are they?”
Chub struck his forehead in despair, and sank back into his seat. “Lost! lost! all is lost! We forgot to bring any irons!”
“We might keel-haul him or hang him from the yardstick,” suggested Roy, hopefully.
“You mean yardarm, of course,” said Dick. “But there isn’t any, and I don’t believe we’ve got a keel that deserves the name. So you’ll have to think of something else. Meanwhile, I’m going to get this chap out of trouble.” And he took up his book again.
“If he only showed the least bit of remorse,” sighed Chub, observing him sadly, “I might be merciful. But this—this shameless effrontery pains me. I tell you what, Roy, we’ll sentence him to make an omelet for supper.”
“We haven’t any eggs,” said Dick, without looking up from his book. Chub cast his eyes to heaven and groaned tragically.
“No eggs! no irons! Ye gods! haven’t we any of the necessities of life on this ship? What have we got, Dick?”
