“But the Petrel’s all right, father?”
“Behaved splendidly.”
“Are we—nearly at Plymouth?” was Mark’s next question.
“Nearly where?”
“At Plymouth. I think, as I’m so ill, I’d better not go any farther. How is mother?”
“Going to get up, my lad, and that’s what you’ve got to do.”
“I’ll try, father. When shall I go ashore?”
“If you like, at Malta, for a few hours,” said the captain drily; “not before.”
“At Malta!” said Mark, raising himself upon one arm.
“Yes, at Malta. Do you know where we are?”