“But I feel disposed to say, steam through to Aden,” said Sir John anxiously, “for if the wind is north-west, we shall have it like a furnace from the African desert.”
“Yes, sir,” said the captain, smiling, “but, according to my experience, it isn’t much better from the Arabian side. There’s no getting over it: the Red Sea might almost be called the Red-hot sea.”
The business going on in the engine-room seemed to be a break in what so far had been rather a monotonous voyage, and, to the father’s great satisfaction the following morning, he came suddenly upon Jack ascending to the deck, wiping his face, and followed by the mate, just as they were slowly steaming into the Canal.
Sir John said nothing, but noted that the lad went with the mate right aft, where they stood leaning over and gazing down at where the screw was churning up the water, the mate explaining its fish-tail-like action and enormous power in propelling the yacht.
“Have an eye upon him, Instow,” said Sir John; “the heat is getting intense, and it can’t be good for him to go down into that engine-room.”
“Just as if I ever had my eyes off him,” replied the doctor. “You let me be.”
“But he seemed to be dripping with perspiration.”
“Best thing for him. Open his pores, which have been shut up all his life. Grand thing for him. He couldn’t be going on better. I was afraid that the heat would depress him, and lay him on his back: don’t you see that so long as he keeps active he will not feel it so much?”
“I am not a doctor,” said Sir John simply. “I suppose you are right.”
“Well, give me a fair chance, old fellow. You’ve had your turn with the bow, and made an old man of him.”