There was half-darkness then for a little while, then light—then darkness again, and some one was leaning over me.
“Steady, lad,” was growled, and I knew it was Bob Hampton again, and I tried to think and ask him what was the matter, but no words would come, though everything was growing very clear now, and the men’s words bounded painfully sharp upon my ears.
“Got him?”
“Ay, ay.”
“Heave then, together. No, hold hard; the corner of that portmanter’s over his hind leg. That’s it; hyste it away.”
I felt myself laid down while something was done close to me, and then I was lifted once more and carried out into the warm sunshine, and laid upon the hot boards of the deck.
“Poor laddie,” growled Bob Hampton, “he’s got it badly. Rum world this here, Neb!”
“Orful,” said Dumlow.
“Reg’lar wusser,” said another voice, which I knew to be Blane’s.
“Look sharp there, my lads,” cried Jarette, from somewhere overhead, which must have been the poop-deck. “That one dead?”