But the owner of the eyes did not say anything, only drew back and disappeared, and as he did so, Fitz found that he could think, for he was asking himself how it was that the fellow who had been looking at him had disappeared.
He came to the conclusion directly afterwards that it was a dream. Then he knew it was not, for he heard a gruff voice that seemed to come through the boards say—
“All right, Poole. Tumble up directly. What say?”
“He’s awake, father, and looks as if he had come to himself.”
“Eh? Oh, that’s good news. Come and see him directly.”
Now Fitz began to think fast, but still not about himself.
“Father, eh?” he thought. “Whose father is he? He said he was coming to see some one directly. Now I wonder who that may be.”
That was as much as Fitz Burnett could get through upon this occasion, for thinking had made his eyelids heavy, and the bright flashing water at which he gazed seemed to grow dull and play upon the boards of his berth just over his head and close at hand.
From growing dull, this rippling water grew very dark indeed, and then for some time there was nothing more but sleep—beautiful sleep, Nature’s great remedy and cure for a heavy blow upon the head that has been very close upon fracturing the bone, but which in this case fell so far short that Fitz Burnett had only had severe concussion of the brain.