“Is it, sir? Then I’ll go and give myself a bit o’ supper after that. Are you eating?”
“I’m trying to, Bob.”
“Trying’s half the battle, sir. There, now I am off.”
Chapter Twenty Six.
The dreary hours crawled along, and it seemed to Carey that he was suffering from a long-drawn weary nightmare, made up of his own pain, a sigh or two at times from the doctor and restless movements, groans, and threats and cursings from the beachcomber.
It was a horrible night, for the boy, in addition to his other troubles, felt as if he were somehow to blame for the sufferings of the wretched man below.
Lying there in agony with broken legs! It was horrible, and the boy could not have suffered more if he had himself been the victim of the accident.
But there were breaks in the misery of that long dark night. Bostock was soon back, announcing that his head was two sizes larger than usual, but that he was all the better for his supper, and ready for anything now.