"Yes, sir. I know, sir," whispered Toby apologetically.
Saltash's arm surrounded him with a comforting closeness. "You miserable little shrimp!" he said. "How's the head?"
"Better, sir. Thank you, sir," muttered Toby.
"Why not tell the truth for once and say it hurts like hell?" suggested
Saltash.
Toby was silent.
"Do you know what I'm going to do with you?" said Saltash.
"No, sir." Toby stirred uneasily.
The vessel pitched to a sudden slant and Saltash braced himself, protecting the fair head from a blow against the woodwork behind him. "I'm going to put you to bed in my bunk here," he said. "You've got to have a decent night's rest. Did Murray look you out any spare slops? I told him to."
"Oh, yes, sir. Thank you, sir. But I couldn't sleep in your bunk, sir,—please, sir—indeed, sir!" Toby, still held by the sheltering arm, waxed incoherent, almost tearful.
Saltash pulled him up short. "You'll do as I tell you—now and always," he said, with royal finality. "You've put yourself in my hands, and you'll have to put up with the consequences. Got that?"