“Is he coming soon?” moaned Walters. “Oh dear! He’ll be too late. I know I’m dying; and if I do, don’t—don’t let ’em throw me overboard.”
“You’re not so bad as that,” I said, trying to cheer him up.
“Oh, you don’t know. Go and tell him to make haste before he is too late.”
To my surprise and delight the door was opened, and the doctor with a very rough head came in.
“Now, squire,” he cried, “what’s the matter?”
“Ah, doctor, oh!”
“Ah, doctor, oh! Don’t make that noise like an old woman of sixty. Pretty sort of a fellow you are to come to sea.”
“Oh dear, oh dear! I know I’m dying.”
“Then you are precious clever, my lad. Bah! There’s nothing the matter with you but the sea tossing you up and down. Lie still, you’ll soon come round.”
“It—isn’t—sea—sick—ick—ickness,” moaned Walters.