Five minutes later a sailor wearing on one sleeve the Red Cross of the hospital squad, passed by.

“Say,” said the marine, “I wish you’d look at the feller in the brig.”

“What ails him?” demanded the man of the hospital squad.

“Blessed if I know.  But just look at his face—­his eyes!”

The hospital man showed his face at the grating, looking at Sam Truax keenly for a moment.

“Wow!” he ejaculated.

“Looks fearful bad, don’t he?” demanded the marine, also peering in.  “What do you think it is?”

“I ain’t quite sure,” answered the hospital man.  “But one thing I do know.  The sawbones officer has got to have a look at this chap.”

Sam Truax sprang to his feet, pacing up and down within the confines of the brig.

“What are they all talking about?” he asked himself, in a buzz of excitement.  “Five minutes ago I felt well enough.  Now—­well, I certainly do feel queerish.”

Barely three minutes more passed when Doctor McCrea hurried below, bustling along to the door of the brig.  He, in turn, shot a keen look at Truax through the bars, then commanded: 

“Sentry, unlock the door!  Let me in there!”

In another moment Doctor McCrea was feeling the prisoner’s pulse.

“How long have you been feeling out of sorts?” asked the medical man, briefly.

“N-n-not long,” answered Truax, quite truthfully.

“Take this thermometer under your tongue!”

Sam Truax meekly submitted, then sat, perfectly still, while Doctor McCrea paced the brig for two full minutes.  Then the “sawbones” took the thermometer from between Truax’s lips and inspected it keenly.

“Hospital man!” rapped out Doctor McCrea, sharply.

“Aye, aye, sir!” reported the man with the Red Cross on his sleeve, reappearing before the door.

“Have the stretcher brought here at once!”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

Still holding the clinical thermometer in one hand, Doctor McCrea stood keenly regarding the prisoner.

“What on earth is the matter with me?” demanded Truax, speaking somewhat nervously.

“Oh, you’ll be all right—­soon,” replied Doctor McCrea, in what was too plainly a voice of false hope.

The stretcher was brought.

“Get on to this, Truax.  Don’t think of attempting to walk,” ordered the surgeon.  “Sentry, I am taking your prisoner to the sick bay.  I’ll make proper report of my action to the lieutenant commander.”

The “sick bay” is the hospital part of a warship.  It is a place provided with wide, comfortable berths and all the appliances for taking good care of ill men.  Sam Truax was carefully placed in one of the berths.  He was the only patient there at the time.

Doctor McCrea frequently felt the fellow’s pulse, then ran a hand lightly over Sam’s face, forehead and temples.

“You might tell me what’s the matter with me, Doc,” protested Truax.