“You damned kidnapers!” he spluttered, and, his excitement getting out of control, he drove a right-hand lunge at the man nearest him.
It was the captain, who dodged it neatly, laughing. Lang smashed out at Carroll, who ducked. Three pairs of hands gripped the unfortunate physician, and urged him toward the stairway again, in spite of his kicks and struggles.
“Easy, doctor. You mustn’t beat up your officers,” they adjured him.
They were extraordinarily patient with him, though he kicked their shins and struggled in an almost foaming rage. They piloted him down the stair, through the saloon and into a stateroom, still directing upon him a stream of the most mollifying speeches.
“We had your room all ready for you, doctor,” said Carroll, as they held him pinioned in the middle of the floor. “Here’s your bag. There’s pajamas laid out on the berth, and there’s ice water and rum and soda water, and if you need anything more in the night, just shout for it. You’ll be called for breakfast. Be calm.”
They left him with a chorus of cheerful “Good nights,” and he heard the door bolt click on the outside.
CHAPTER III
ROCKETT
Lang’s fury of wrath slowly cooled. He sat down on the berth, drank a glass of water, and eventually laughed. These fellows had taken so much trouble over him, had been so patient, and all to get the wrong man. Evidently they intended to keep him on board, still hoping that he could restore their friend to life, or at any rate to speech.
He removed his wet clothes and lay down, hardly expecting to sleep. He listened to the throb of the screw, the wash of water, the occasional trampling steps overhead. He dozed fitfully, waking with a start, listening to the sea sounds, and at last found his room suddenly flooded with light.
A brilliant reflection of sunshine from the sea came through the port. He had slept after all, and more soundly than he had done for weeks, and he had a half minute of stupid bewilderment before the full memory of his predicament came back.