“We are far out at sea, Ned,” whispered Jack.
“Good job. I don’t know though. I hope we shall go and give ’em an awful thrashing. We didn’t interfere with them. Coming and shotting their arrows at us behind our backs. I say, Mr Jack, don’t you get one in you. My word, how it does make you dream—all the awfullest nonsense you could imagine. I should like to tell you, but it’s all mixed up so. I say, I fainted, didn’t I?”
“Yes.”
“I remember; up there in the wood. I felt myself going like a great gal. Just as I did once when I was a boy. How rum! That was through an arrow. I used to make myself bows and arrows, and I was making a deal arrow, and smoothing it with a bit of glass, when the bit broke and I cut my finger awful, and turned sick, and down I went.—I say, Mr Jack.”
“Yes, Ned,” said the lad in a voice full of pity.
“I can’t recollect a bit after that. How did you yet me down to the boat?”
“The men carried you.”
“One to them. My turn next. Good lads. Then you rowed out to the yacht.”
“Yes, Ned.”
“Yacht! I wish I could spell yacht when I write a letter home ready for posting first chance. I always get the letters mixed up. But I say, Mr Jack, this won’t do! I say, would you mind giving me a bit of a pull? I could walk to my berth. This is luxurious, this is. Me on the cabin couch, and you waiting on me. Here, I feel like a rich lord. Now pull.”