“Ask him where his ship is,” whispered Dean.
“Yes, that’s it. Do you belong to some ship in the harbour?”
“No, sir. She sailed away three months ago. I was too bad to go away with her. Fever, gentlemen.”
“Oh, that’s bad,” said Mark. “Sick in a strange place.”
“Oh, I haven’t got anything to grumble at, sir. The consul’s been very good to me; but I am as weak as a rat, sir, and—and—”
The poor fellow’s voice during the last few words had trailed off, and ended in silence, while the two boys looked at him sympathetically and felt very uncomfortable.
“I shall be better directly, gentlemen,” he said at last, with quite a gasp; and then with an effort he went on, “I beg pardon, but I heard of you. Someone told me about a party of English gentlemen going up the country towards the mountains where a fellow could shake off the fever. I can’t get on, gentlemen—so weak. Better directly.”
“All right,” said Mark. “Take your time.”
“Thank you, sir. I thought you were going away. It ain’t catching, sir.”
“Nobody thought it was,” said Mark. “Here, let’s walk on down towards the waterside.”