“I thought Poole here had done his best to make you comfortable, my lad.”
“Oh yes, and he has, sir,” cried the boy, turning to look full in his attendant’s eyes. “He has been a splendid fellow, sir. Nobody could have been kinder to me than he has, even at my worst times, when I was so ill and irritable that I behaved to him like a surly brute.”
“It’s your turn now, Poole,” growled the skipper, “to say ‘Thank you’ for that.”
“But you must feel, sir, how anxious and worried I must be—how eager to get back to my ship. In another day or two, Captain Reed, I shall be quite well enough to go. Promise me, sir, that you will set me ashore.”
The skipper had pursed up his lips as if he were going to whistle for the wind, and he turned his now frowning face to look steadfastly at his son, who met his eyes with a questioning gaze, while the midshipman looked anxiously from one to the other, as if seeking to catch an encouraging look which failed to come.
At last the boy broke the silence again, trying to speak firmly; but, paradoxically, weakness was too strong, and his voice sounded cracked as he cried, almost pitifully—
“Oh, Captain Reed! Promise me you will now set me ashore!”
The skipper was silent for a few moments, before turning his face slowly to meet the appealing look in the boy’s eyes.
“Set you ashore?” he said gruffly.
“Yes, sir, please. Pray do!”