He lifted the light, trembling figure and put it down again upon the couch.  Then he poured out a dose of brandy and water and, holding the boy’s head on his arm while the yacht lifted and tossed, compelled him to drink it.

“Now you lie quiet!” he commanded.  “Don’t stir an eyelid till I give you leave!”

The porthole was shut, and the atmosphere close and stuffy.  Toby put forth an appealing hand and clung to his protector’s sleeve.

“Mayn’t I come on deck, sir?” he murmured anxiously.  “Please, sir!”

“No,” said Saltash.

Toby said no more, but his fingers fastened like a bird’s claw on the man’s arm, and he shivered.

“You’re frightened!” said Saltash.

“No, sir!  No, sir!” he protested.

“Yes, you are.  You needn’t bother to lie to me.  I always know.”  Saltash’s voice held an odd note of comradeship.  “Beastly sensation, isn’t it?  Have some more brandy!”

Then, as Toby refused, he sat down abruptly on the edge of the couch and thrust an arm out to him.  Toby crept to him then like a nervous dog and trembled against his side.

“Little ass!” said Saltash again.  “Been lying here sweating with terror, have you?  There’s nothing whatever to sweat about.  She’s as safe as houses.”

“Yes, sir.  I know, sir,” whispered Toby apologetically.

Saltash’s arm surrounded him with a comforting closeness.  “You miserable little shrimp!” he said.  “How’s the head?”

“Better, sir.  Thank you, sir,” muttered Toby.

“Why not tell the truth for once and say it hurts like hell?” suggested Saltash.

Toby was silent.

“Do you know what I’m going to do with you?” said Saltash.

“No, sir.”  Toby stirred uneasily.

The vessel pitched to a sudden slant and Saltash braced himself, protecting the fair head from a blow against the woodwork behind him.  “I’m going to put you to bed in my bunk here,” he said.  “You’ve got to have a decent night’s rest.  Did Murray look you out any spare slops?  I told him to.”

“Oh, yes, sir.  Thank you, sir.  But I couldn’t sleep in your bunk, sir,—­please, sir—­indeed, sir!” Toby, still held by the sheltering arm, waxed incoherent, almost tearful.

Saltash pulled him up short.  “You’ll do as I tell you—­now and always,” he said, with royal finality.  “You’ve put yourself in my hands, and you’ll have to put up with the consequences.  Got that?”

“Yes, sir,” said Toby meekly.

“Then don’t forget it!” said Saltash.

Toby subsided without further protest.  Perhaps the brandy helped to make him quiescent, or perhaps it was only the realization of his utter weakness and dependence; but from that moment he was as submissive as if he had been indeed the small captive animal to which his new owner had likened him.  At Saltash’s behest and with his help, he presently crept back to his own cabin to divest himself of his hotel-livery and don the very roomy suit of pajamas that Murray the steward had served out to him.