"Now you go to sleep," Mr. Martin advised, after his brief manner. "Warm, now?"
Yes, Kirk was quite warm and cozy, but very much bewildered, and desirous of asking a hundred questions. These the mate forbade.
"You go to sleep," he commanded.
"Then please sing another tune," Kirk said. "What was that you were playing on?"
"Violin," said Mr. Martin. "Fiddle. I was plunking it like a banjo. Now I'll play it, if you'll stop talking."
Kirk did, and the mate began to play. His music was untaught, and he himself had made up the strange airs he played. They sighed fitfully through the little cabin like the rush of wind and water without; blended with it, mingled with the hundred little voices of the ship. The Celestine slipped on up the coast, singing softly to herself, and Kirk fell asleep with the undulating wail of the violin and the whisper of water filling his half-awakened senses.
He woke abruptly, much later, and called for Felicia suddenly; then, recollecting hazily where he was, for Mr. Martin. Hearing no sound, he was frightened, and cried out in remembered terror.
"Steady!" said the mate's voice. "What's the trouble?"
"I don't know," said Kirk. "I--I think I need to talk to somebody. There hasn't been anybody for so long."
"Well, go ahead," said the mate. "I'm in my bunk. If you think there's room enough, I'll put you in here. More sociable, rather."