But Nic did not get better, as Pete wished, nor yet as the doctor essayed to make him.
“It has got on his brain, poor fellow,” said that gentleman one day, when the patient was able to walk about, apparently nearly well, but his mind quite vacant. He talked, but the past was quite a blank.
“But he’ll get it off, won’t he, zir?” said Pete, who felt the time to speak had come.
“Some day, my lad. I dare say his memory will come back all of a sudden when he is stronger and better able to bear his trouble; so perhaps it’s all a blessing for him in disguise.”
There was so much in this that Pete felt that it was not the time to speak yet.
“What good can it do him till he can think?” he said to himself. “It will only be like me losing a mate as can be a bit o’ comfort, now every one’s again’ me. I mean to stick to him till he can speak out and tell ’em as I didn’t inform again’ the others.”
So Pete held his tongue, and being so much below, was almost forgotten, save by the men of the watches who had to bring the two sick men their rations; and finally he left it till it was too late. For he awoke one morning to find that they were in port in a strange land, and in the course of the morning the word was passed to him and his unfortunate companion to “tumble up.”
“Here, master,” he said to Nic; “you’re to come up.”
Nic made no objection, but suffered himself to be led on deck, where he stood, pale and thin, the wreck of his former self, blinking in the unwonted light, and trying to stare about him, but in a blank way, ending by feeling for and clinging to Pete’s arm.
Very little time was afforded the latter for looking about, wondering what was to happen next; all he saw on deck was a group of marines and about a couple of dozen of the sailors doing something to one of the boats, while the officers were looking on.