“You here?” he said wonderingly.
“Hush! Don’t speak aloud, dear lad,” whispered Pete excitedly.
“Dear lad?”
“Master Nic Revel, then. You haven’t quite come-to yet. You don’t remember. You were took bad again after being bad once—when you asked me questions aboard ship, and I had to tell you.”
“Taken bad—aboard ship?”
“Here you are; catch hold,” said a voice close to them; and one of the men handed each half a small loaf, while his companion filled a tin mug that must have held about half-a-pint, and offered it to Nic.
The young man had let the great piece of bread fall into his lap, but the gurgling sound of the water falling into the mug seemed to rouse a latent feeling of intense thirst, and he raised himself more, took the vessel with both hands and half-drained it, rested for a few moments, panting, and then drank the rest before handing the tin back with a sigh of content.
“No, no; hold it,” said the man sharply; and Nic had to retain it in his trembling hands while it was refilled.
“There, give it to your mate,” said the water-bearer.
The two young men’s eyes met over the vessel in silence, Nic’s full of angry dislike, Pete’s with an appealing, deprecating look, which did not soften Nic’s in the least.