There were none.
His natural inference had been, as he was lying there upon his back, that he must be in bed; but now he found that, though there were no bed-clothes, he was wearing his own, only upon feeling about with no little pain they did not seem like his clothes.
That was as far as he could get then, but some time after there came a gleam of light in his understanding, and he recalled the mists that hung about the Channel.
Of course he was in one of those thick mists, and he had gone to sleep on—on—what had he gone to sleep on?
The light died out, and it was a long time before, like a flash, came the answer.
The deck of the cutter!
He made a movement to start up in horror, for he knew that he must have gone to steep during his watch, and his pain and stiffness were like a punishment for doing so disgraceful a thing.
“What will Mr Brough say if he knows?” he thought, and then he groaned, for the pain caused by the movement was unbearable.
At last his mind began to clear, and he set himself to wonder with more force. This was not the deck, for he could feel that he was lying on what was like an old sail, and where his hand lay was not wood, but cold hard stone, with a big crack full of small scraps.
The lad shook his head and then uttered a low moan, for the pain was terrible.