Doctor Kingsmead gave the speaker a hearty slap on the shoulder.
“Bostock,” he said, “you’re a philosopher. There, we’ll make the best of things, and, in the hope that our poor friends are all saved, I will not murmur against our fate.”
“That’s right, sir, and now if you don’t mind my being a bit rough I’ll be cook and stooard, and you’ll soon have your bit to eat, and when you’ve done—”
“You will have done too,” said the doctor, “and we must drop distinctions now. So help me make the coffee, and then we’ll have our meal, and afterwards we must make our plans.”
They made very few plans that night, for in spite of their long sleep that day the exhaustion they had gone through during the typhoon still told upon them so that, after seeing to Carey, who was sleeping peacefully enough, they took it in turns to keep watches of three hours’ length, and passed the night sleeping or listening to the soft, low boom of the breakers on the reef.
The morning broke gloriously, and the sunshine and soft air seemed to send a thrill of elasticity through the doctor, which grew into a feeling of joy as he examined his patient, who slept still as if he had not moved during the night.
He stepped out of the cabin to hear Bostock whistling away cheerily in the steward’s department: but the whistling ceased as soon as the doctor appeared.
“Morning, sir. What do you make o’ the young skipper?”
“Sleeping still,” said the doctor; “a beautiful, restful sleep, without a trace of fever.”
“Hooroar for that, sir. Best thing for him, aren’t it?”