Before the speaker could continue, the cabin-door was thrust open and the bluff-looking skipper entered.
“Hullo!” he said sternly, “what’s the matter here?”
“Your son, sir, won’t answer my questions,” cried Fitz excitedly.
“Quite right, my lad. I told him not to until you get better, so don’t ask.”
“I am better,” cried the boy, trying to spring up, but sinking back with a groan.
“There, you see,” said the skipper, “you are not. You are far too weak. Why not take my word for it, my lad, as a bit of a doctor? Now, look here! You want to know how it is you came on board my craft—wait patiently a little while, and when I think you are well enough to bear it I will tell you all.”
“But I don’t want to be told now,” cried the boy passionately—“not that. I boarded with our men, and I can remember I felt a heavy blow. I must have been knocked down and stunned. What has become of our lieutenant, the boat and men?”
“Oh, well, my lad, if the murder must out—”
“Murder!” cried Fitz.
“Murder, no! Nonsense! That’s a figure of speech. I mean, if the story must come out, here it is. I was going peacefully down channel when your boat boarded us.”