"I can't think what it is the gals see in me," said the other
mournfully. "Can you?"
"No, I'm blamed if I can," replied the mate frankly.
"I don't take no credit for it, Bill," said the skipper, "not a bit. My
father was like it before me. The worry's killing me."
"Well, which are you going to have?" inquired the mate. "Which do you
like the best?"
"I don't know, an' that's a fact," said the skipper. "They 've both got
money coming to 'em; when I'm in Wales I like Mary Jones best, and when
I'm in London it's Janey Cooper. It's dreadful to be like that, Bill."
"It is," said the mate drily. "I wouldn't be in your shoes when those
two gals meet for a fortune. Then you'll have old Jones and her brothers
to tackle, too. Seems to me things'll be a bit lively."
"I hev thought of being took sick, and staying in my bunk, Bill,"
suggested Evans anxiously.
"An' having the two of 'em to nurse you," retorted Bill. "Nice quiet
time for an invalid."
Evans made a gesture of despair.
"How would it be," said the mate, after a long pause, and speaking very
slowly; "how would it be if I took this one off your hands."
"You couldn't do it, Bill," said the skipper decidedly. "Not while she
knew I was above ground." "Well, I can try," returned the mate shortly.
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