As he spoke the skipper passed one muscular arm gently under the boy’s shoulders and raised him up, while his son bent forward with the tea.
“Thank you,” said Fitz, “but there was no need for that. I could have— Oh, how ridiculous to be so weak as this!”
“Oh, not at all,” said the skipper. “Why, you have been days and days without any food—no coal in your bunkers, my lad. How could you expect your engines to go?”
“What!” cried Fitz. “Days and days! Wasn’t I taken ill yesterday?”
“Well, not exactly, my lad,” said the skipper dryly; “but don’t you bother about that now. Try the tea.”
The cup was held to his lips, and the lad sipped and then drank with avidity.
“’Tis good,” he muttered.
“That’s right,” said the skipper. “You were a bit thirsty, I suppose. Why, you will soon be ready to eat, but we mustn’t go too fast; mind that, Poole. Gently does it, mind, till he gets a bit stronger.—Come, finish your tea.—That’s the way. Now let me lay you down again.”
This was done, and the boy’s face wrinkled up once more.
“I am so weak,” he said querulously.