“No, sir, don’t do that. Here, give me your hand again. Up you gets. That’s the way. This time does it. Told you so. Here we are.”
“Don’t, please don’t talk to me,” said Jack in a low voice. “Help me into the berth.—Yes, thank you. Now go away and leave me.”
“Won’t roll out, will you, sir?”
“Don’t—don’t talk to me. Please go.”
“Poor chap!” muttered Edward. “I do wish he’d got just a little bit o’ pluck in him. But it do make you feel a bit queer. S’pose I go and shake it off on deck.”
He went up, saw that the gentlemen were right aft, and he walked forward to where the crew were busy here and there, and nodded first to one and then another in the most friendly way, as if he had known them all his life. Then he thrust his hands in his pockets, trying to look perfectly unconcerned, and balanced himself so as to try and give and take with the vessel.
But it was no good; he fought against the inevitable as long as he could, and finally staggered to the cabin hatch and descended to where Jack was lying. “Here’s a go, sir,” he cried. “I thought it only wanted a bit of pluck, and it would be all right.”
“Oh, go away,” groaned Jack. “Don’t bother me. I’m dying.”
“I’m worse than that, sir,” said the man piteously. “What’s to be done, sir?”
“Oh, go to your hammock or berth. I can’t bear to be bothered now.”