“Then what’s the matter with you?” I cried contemptuously; “sea-sick?”
“No—no, that—that wretch, Jarette.”
“What?” cried Mr Brymer, with a mocking laugh. “What? ‘Wretch Jarette!’ Do you mean your captain, my worthy young lieutenant?”
Walters’ eyes gave a roll and then closed as he lay there; but they opened again directly, for Mr Brymer gave him an angry thrust—a thrust, not a kick—with his foot.
“Here, get up, cur! You’re our prisoner now. What do you say?”
Walters’ lips were moving as Dumlow held the light over him and bent down.
“Says as you’re to stow him in prison, sir, and not let the skipper see him.”
“Bah! Has it come to this? Speak to him, Dale. What does he say now?”
“Water; he is asking for water,” I said, as I saw how piteously weak the lad was.
“Suffering from exhaustion and want of air.”