“Bay of Biscay!” I echoed. “The Channel, you mean. The captain said we were bound for East London.”
“So we are, sir, and we’re heading there at nine knots an hour. We shan’t do so much, though, if this sou’wester keeps up.”
An idea struck me, but it was a confused one.
“Steward,” I said, sitting bolt upright. “Will you oblige me with a piece of information. Where the devil is East London?”
“Eastern end of the Cape Colony, Mr Holt; and a bad port of call, whichever way you take it.”
The answer came from the captain, who entered at that moment. The steward went on with his occupation, that of laying the table for breakfast.
“Great Scott!” I cried, as the truth dawned upon me. “But—”
“I see how it stands,” said the captain with a smile. “You thought East London meant the East India Docks. I didn’t set you right at the time, because you might have got into a state of excitement, and rest was the word just then. Now I think you are fairly on your legs again.”
“But—botheration! I don’t want to take a voyage to the Cape. I suppose you can put me ashore somewhere, so I can get back.”
“I’m afraid not. We don’t touch anywhere. But I think even the voyage is the lesser evil of the two. Better than lying at the bottom of the Channel, I mean.”