He patted Mark’s shoulder as he stood gazing over the port bulwark at a dim blue line.
“I couldn’t get to you more, Mark, my lad,” said the second-mate, “but you’ll be all right now. We’ve had a rough time.”
“And to think of you coming all the way with us after all!” said the boatswain in a pleasant growl. “Here, I’m going to make a sailor o’ you.”
Mark was alone soon after, when Billy Widgeon came up smiling to say a few friendly words, and directly after a thin pale sailor came edging along the bulwarks to say feebly:
“I see you’ve been very bad too, sir. I thought once we should have been all drowned.”
Mark had an instinctive dislike to this man, he could not tell why, and as he felt this he was at the same time angry with himself, for it seemed unjust.
The man noted it, and sighed as he went away, and even this sigh troubled its hearer, for he could not make out whether it was genuine or uttered to excite sympathy.
There was some excuse, for Mr David Jimpny’s personal appearance was not much improved by the composite sailor suit he wore. His trousers were an old pair of the captain’s, and his jacket had been routed out by the boatswain, both officers being about as opposite in physique to the stowaway as could well be imagined. In fact, as Mark Strong saw him going forward he could not help thinking that the poor fellow looked better in his shore-going rags.
Then his manner of coming on board had not been of a kind to produce a favourable impression.
“I can’t help it,” said Mark aloud. “I don’t want to jump upon the poor fellow, but how can we take to him when even one’s dog looks at him suspiciously.”