The second time I dozed and started again, I heard the captain’s voice close beside us.  He was bawling upwards now, to Mr. Waters on the bridge.  Then he pushed me on one side and took my place at the wheel, shouting to the steersman—­“I meant the Scotch lad, not that boy.”

“He’s strong enough, and steady too,” was the reply.

They both drove the wheel in silence, and I held on by a coil of heavy rope, and sucked my fingers to warm them, and very salt they tasted.  Then the captain left the wheel and turned to me again.

“Are you cold?”

“Rather, sir.”

“You may go below, and see if the cook can spare you a cup of coffee.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“But first find Mr. Johnson, and send him here.”

“Yes, sir.”

Whilst the captain was talking, I began to think of Dennis O’Moore, and how he groaned, and to wonder whether it was true that he would get better, and whether it would be improper to ask the captain, who would not be likely to humbug me, if he answered at all.

“Well?” said the captain sharply, “what are you standing there like a stuck pig for?”

I saluted.  “Please, sir, will he get better?”

“What the ——­ Oh, yes.  And hi, you!”

“Yes, sir?”

“He’s in the steerage.  You may go and see if he wants anything, and attend on him.  You may remain below at present.”

“Thank you, sir.”

I lost no time in finding Mr. Johnson, and I got a delicious cup of coffee and half a biscuit from the cook, who favoured me in consequence of the conscientious scouring I had bestowed upon his pans.  Then mightily warmed and refreshed, I made my way to the side of the hammock I had swung for the rescued lad, and by the light of a swinging lamp saw his dark head buried in his arms.

When I said, “Do you want anything?” he lifted his face with a jerk, and looked at me.

“Not I—­much obliged,” he said, smiling, and still staring hard.  He had teeth like the half-caste, but the resemblance stopped there.

“The captain said I might come and look after you, but if you want to go to sleep, do,” said I.

“Why would I, if you’ll talk to me a bit?” was his reply; and resting his head on the edge of his hammock and looking me well over, he added, “Did they pick you up as well?”

I laughed and wrung some salt water out of my sleeve.

“No.  I’ve not been in the sea, but I’ve been on deck, and it’s just as wet.  It always is wet at sea,” I added in a tone of experience.

His eyes twinkled as if I amused him.  “That, indeed?  And yourself, are ye—­a midshipman?”

It had been taken for granted that our new hand was “a gentleman.”  I never doubted it, though he spoke with an accent that certainly recalled old Biddy Macartney; a sort of soft ghost of a brogue with a turn up at the end of it, as if every sentence came sliding and finished with a spring, and I did wish I could have introduced myself as a midshipman—­instead of having to mutter, “No, I’m a stowaway.”