“Steady there!” roared out the boatswain. “What are you singing out like that for? Can’t you see you are safe aboard?”
“Eh? Eh? Oh, thank goodness! I thought it was the schooner’s lights. That you, Mr Butters?”
“Me it is, my lad! All right now, aren’t you?”
“Yes, yes; all right. But I thought it was all over with me that time.”
“So it ought to have been! Why, what were you about? Did you walk overboard in your sleep?”
“I—no—I—I dunno how it was. I suppose I slipped.”
“Not much suppose about it,” said the boatswain, as the man sat up. “Here, I’ll give you a dose that’ll do you good. Take one of them oars and pull.”
“Oh no!” cried Poole. “The poor fellow’s weak.”
“’Course he is, sir, and that’ll warm him up and put life into him. Tit for tat. We’ve saved him from what the old folks at home calls a watery grave, and now it’s his turn to do a bit of something to save us.”
“To save us, Mr Butters?” whispered Fitz, laying his hand on the boatswain’s arm. “Why, you don’t think—”