“I can’t; I’m too weak,” said Jemmy.

“You get up on deck at once; d’ye hear me?” hissed the skipper, in alarm.

“I c-c-c-can’t help it,” sobbed Jemmy, who was enjoying the situation amazingly.  “I b’lieve it’s sleeping on the hard floor’s snapped something inside me.”

“If you don’t go I’ll take you,” said the skipper, and he was about to rise to put his threat into execution when a shadow fell across the opening, and a voice, which thrilled him to the core, said softly, “Jemmy!”

“Yes ’m?” said Jemmy languidly, as the skipper flattened himself in his bunk and drew the clothes over him.

“How do you feel?” inquired Mrs. Harbolt.

“Bad all over,” said Jemmy.  “Oh, don’t come down, mum—­please don’t.”

“Rubbish!” said Mrs. Harbolt tartly, as she came slowly and carefully down backwards.  “What a dark hole this is, Jemmy.  No wonder you’re ill.  Put your tongue out.”

Jemmy complied.

“I can’t see properly here,” murmured the lady, “but it looks very large.  S’pose you go in the other bunk, Jemmy.  It’s a good bit higher than this, and you’d get more air and be more comfortable altogether.”

“Joe wouldn’t like it, mum,” said the boy anxiously.  The last glimpse he had had of the skipper’s face did not make him yearn to share his bed with him.

“Stuff an’ nonsense!” said Mrs. Harbolt hotly.  “Who’s Joe, I’d like to know?  Out you come.”

“I can’t move, mum,” said Jemmy firmly.

“Nonsense!” said the lady.  “I’ll just put it straight for you first, then in it you go.”

“No, don’t, mum,” shouted Jemmy, now thoroughly alarmed at the success of his plot.  “There, there’s a gentleman in that bunk.  A gentleman we brought from London for a change of sea air.”

“My goodness gracious!” ejaculated the surprised Mrs. Harbolt.  “I never did.  Why, what’s he had to eat?”

“He—­he—­didn’t want nothing to eat,” said Jemmy, with a woeful disregard for facts.

“What’s the matter with him?” inquired Mrs. Harbolt, eyeing the bunk curiously.  “What’s his name?  Who is he?”

“He’s been lost a long time,” said Jemmy, “and he’s forgotten who he is—­ he’s a oldish man with a red face an’ a little white whisker all round it—­a very nice-looking man, I mean,” he interposed hurriedly.  “I don’t think he’s quite right in his head, ’cos he says he ought to have been buried instead of someone else.  Oh!”

The last word was almost a scream, for Mrs. Harbolt, staggering back, pinched him convulsively.

“Jemmy!” she gasped, in a trembling voice, as she suddenly remembered certain mysterious hints thrown out by the mate.  “Who is it?”

“The captain!” said Jemmy, and, breaking from her clasp, slipped from his bed and darted hastily on deck, just as the pallid face of his commander broke through the blankets and beamed anxiously on his wife.