CHAPTER XX
Adolf Fruhmann's Venture
Never perhaps was there a more exaggerated example of base ingratitude, of trickery, of cunning, and of calculated rascality than that instanced by the presence of the ruffian, Adolf Fruhmann, aboard the great airship. Snug in his bunk, feigning exhaustion and illness after exposure and privation, the wretch successfully evaded the ken of Joe and his friends while sending messages of the profoundest gratitude to them.
"All so much dust," he sniggered beneath the bed-clothes, for only the top of his head was showing. "Just a little more dust in their eyes to blind 'em. It just makes me roar when I think how the scheme acted, and Carl saying all the while that it wouldn't. Well, he pays, pays all the more handsomely."
He went off into a paroxysm of silent laughter, which shook the bunk and brought the tender-hearted Hawkins to his side within a moment.
"Eh, mate?" he asked gently enough, for your sailor or your soldier attendant is the very best of fellows, as gentle as any woman, and often almost as clever where nursing is necessary.
"Eh, mate? Got the shivers? Fever? Well, I've had it, and it ain't too agreeable. But Mr. Andrew'll put you right. He's the doctor aboard this ship, and a good 'un. I'll send along for him."
"Please," gurgled the wretch in the bunk, still keeping his head hidden. "Please, I'm as cold as an icicle at times, and then boiling hot. I'm dying."
"Not you, mate," came from the encouraging Hawkins, who hastened away at once so that he might save this derelict fisherman some suffering. And Mr. Andrew was equally solicitous.