“I know nothing but that I have that poor boy lying there to be saved from death if it be possible. Can’t you have a wind-sail lowered down here? The heat is intolerable.”
“Wind-sail? You’ll have wind enough directly. We’re going straight into a typhoon, and no other course is open to me in this reef-strewn sea.”
“A storm?”
“Yes, and a bad one, I expect. It will be pitch-dark directly.”
“The fresh air will be welcome,” said the doctor, calmly.
“Is the captain here?” said a voice at the state-room door—a voice speaking in anxious tones.
“Yes; what is it?” said the captain, quickly. “Come on deck, sir. It’s rushing upon us like a great wall. Hear it?”
Doctor Kingsmead turned his face for a moment towards the door, to hear a peculiar dull distant roar, different from any sound with which he was familiar. Then the door swung to, and he was bending over his young patient again, thinking of nothing else, hearing no more for a few moments, till the door was pushed open again, and the rough, ruddy bronze face of Bostock appeared in the full light of the swinging lamp.
“Beg pardon, sir,” said the man, hoarsely. “Just going on dooty, and mayn’t have another chance, as things looks bad.”
“What do you mean?” said the doctor, starting.