“I’m so thirsty!” came feebly from the boy’s berth.
“Dear lad!” said Bostock, quickly. “I’ll get some water for him to drink.”
“Yes, quickly,” cried the doctor, as he recalled his dream-like ideas and grasped the truth.
The old sailor hurried out, and the doctor laid his hand gently on his patient’s head, to find it moist with perspiration. As he did so the boy’s eyes opened and he stared at the doctor wonderingly for a few moments before the light of recognition came into them, and he smiled.
“Doctor!” he said. “You here?”
“Yes, my dear boy,” said the doctor, gently. “How do you feel?”
“Been dreaming horribly, and got such a bad headache. But—but—”
He stared about him, then back at the doctor, and an anxious look came into his eyes.
“Have—have I been ill?” he said, in a husky voice, and he raised one hand to catch at the doctor’s, but let it fall with a faint cry of pain.
“Yes, a little; but you are getting better, my dear boy,” said the doctor, soothingly. “Don’t be alarmed; only lie still.”