‘Fancy,’ said the captain.
‘Must be,’ echoed Slaughter.
Cigars resumed—more smoke—another cough—smothered, but violent.
‘Damned odd!’ said the captain, staring about him.
‘Sing’ler!’ ejaculated the unconscious Mr. Joseph Tuggs.
Lieutenant Slaughter looked first at one person mysteriously, then at another: then, laid down his cigar, then approached the window on tiptoe, and pointed with his right thumb over his shoulder, in the direction of the curtain.
‘Slaughter!’ ejaculated the captain, rising from table, ‘what do you mean?’
The lieutenant, in reply, drew back the curtain and discovered Mr. Cymon Tuggs behind it: pallid with apprehension, and blue with wanting to cough.
‘Aha!’ exclaimed the captain, furiously. ‘What do I see? Slaughter, your sabre!’
‘Cymon!’ screamed the Tuggses.