Fitz nodded.
“Oh, about eight hundred miles.”
“And where’s that? Somewhere south?”
“No, north by east.”
“Do you mean it?”
It was Poole’s turn now to nod.
The young midshipman sank back aghast, trying to mentally fill up the blank between that night off the dark waters near Liverpool, and the bright sunny sea before him now.
It was a thorough failure, for before many minutes had passed, his thinking powers seemed to be rendered misty by a sunny glow through which he was wafted back to England, Kent, and his own old pleasant home.
His head had sunk back, and he was sleeping peacefully and well, not in the least disturbed by his attendant as the breakfast-things were removed and the cabin touched up. This done, Poole stood beside him, examining his position.
“Seems comfortable enough,” he said, “and I don’t think he can roll over. Poor old chap! It does seem a nasty turn, but it was not our fault. I hope he’ll soon settle down, because he seems to be the sort of fellow, if he wasn’t quite so cocky, that one might come to like.”