“That’s right,” he said, looking at me searchingly. “I went back on deck to make some inquiries, and when I reached the men’s quarters, I was attacked. But I should like to clear that matter up. The steward swears it was not his doing; it would not have been one of the crew. Where is your messmate, Walters?”
I shook my head.
“Not hurt?” he cried, anxiously.
“No, sir. Not that I know of. Last time I saw him he was quite well.”
“Where is he?”
There was a dead silence for a few moments, and then Mr Brymer spoke—
“Poor Walters is not with us, sir.”
“What?” cried Captain Berriman. “Poor lad! Poor lad!” Then after a pause, “He is a prisoner then?”
“Yes, sir, we suppose so,” replied Mr Brymer, and I heard the captain groan, while a hot feeling of indignation rose in my breast.
“Poor Walters!” and all that pity and sympathy for the ill-conditioned cowardly young wretch. I felt that I must speak out and tell all that I knew, but somehow I could not; and to this day I have never been able to settle in my own mind whether I was right or wrong.