“Ah, yes, we must have a boat to go ashore, and every one has gone.”
“Yes, sir, even the little dinghy. That must ha’ been washed away, same as the gig, for that warn’t launched. But all right, sir; there’s other ways o’ killing a cat besides hanging. We must make one.”
“Or a raft,” said the doctor.
“Raft’ll do to begin with. Four bunged-up casks and some boards’ll do first. That’s easy to make on deck, for there’s the carpenter’s tools, and we can easily rig up tackle to hyste it over the side. It’s the boat as’ll bother us, but you never know what you can do till you try.”
“No, Bostock, you never do.”
“That’s so, sir. A boat we want, and a boat we’ll have. I say, sir, just think of it; won’t that there dear lad just enjy having a boat to sail and fish about here in the lagoon, or out yonder across the reef on a calm day?”
“Yes, we must get him well, Bostock,” said the doctor, smiling. “Come along: we need not examine our position any more; let’s see if he is awake.”
“And ready for a drop o’ soup, sir. There’s rows of them tins o’ portable, as they call it, sir, in the store-room. Drop warmed up ought to be just the thing now, poor lad; he can’t work his teeth as he should.”
“We’ll see,” said the doctor, and they made their way towards the saloon, but only to stop short and listen to the sounds which came softly through the cabin bulkheads—sounds which made the old sailor drop into the attitude of one with folded arms about to perform a hornpipe, and executing three or four steps, to end suddenly with a slap on the leg.
“Hear that, sir?” he whispered, softly. “That’s what I call real pluck in a lad with his upper works broke clean in half. Just think o’ that!”