“But I want to fasten the door,” he whispered.
“I’ll fasten it when I come out.”
“No, that will not do; Mr Brymer said that the door was to be kept fast, and I can’t go away and leave it.”
“But I want to talk to him,” I whispered. “Lock me in for a bit.”
“And suppose he turns savage with you, and tries to get your weapons?” whispered Mr Frewen, with a smile.
“I shan’t let him have them,” I replied. “Besides, he’s weak and ill.”
“Humph!—not so very, my lad. There, I’ll lock you in, and come and let you out in a quarter of an hour.”
He closed and locked the cabin door sharply, and I stood there thinking what I should say to my old messmate, and feeling how awkward it was now he was in trouble. For he lay there half turned away with his eyes closed, and I heard him moan piteously again while I waited to hear Mr Frewen’s departing step.
But it did not come for a few moments. Then I heard him go into the adjoining cabin, and the opening of his medicine-chest quite plainly.
“I don’t believe he wants medicine,” I thought. “He must be suffering from some internal injury.” Though as to what part of his body the injury might be in, I had not the slightest idea.