"How are you to-day?" he said, addressing the steerage passenger with some show of good-humoured interest. Mackay was lying on the sand, propped up against the wall of the hut, and Percival was breaking his nails over an obstinate screw which was deeply embedded in a thick piece of wood.
"Better, thanks." The voice was curiously hoarse and gruff.
"Jackson isn't a bad surgeon, I fancy."
"Not at all."
"Lucky for you that he was saved."
"I owe my life twice to him and once to you."
"I hope you think it's something to be grateful for," said Percival, carelessly. "You've had some escapes to tell your friends about when you get home."
Mackay turned aside his head. "I have no friends to tell," he said, shortly.
"Ah! more's the pity. Well, no doubt you will make some in Pernambuco—when you get there."
"Do you think we ever shall get there?"