“Yes, it does. Wake up. I want to talk to you.”
“No, no. Let me go—sleep,” I said.
“I sha’n’t. Wake up. Let you and me row for a bit, and then we’ll make Bob. Come along.”
Bigley half pushed me over the thwart to that in front, and placed the oar in my hands; then, taking the other, he thrust it in the rowlocks, and asked me if I was ready.
“Ready? No,” I said angrily. “I want to lie down and sleep. I’m so cold. Let me lie down.”
“But you can’t,” he said. “Now, then, let’s row. It will warm you.”
“But where are we to row?” I said dolefully, and with a curious sense of not caring what happened now.
“I’ll show you. Look!” he cried, “you can see the north star.”
“Bother the north star!” I grumbled. “I don’t want to see the north star.”
“But if we keep staring straight up at that as we go, we are sure to reach our shore—somewhere.”