“I don’t like it, Frewen,” said somebody just then. “What do you say? You don’t think it possible that—”
He did not finish speaking, for just then I saw Mr Frewen go to the boy on the tub, and dash some water over his face.
“Now, my lad,” he said, “you must get up and walk about.”
He took hold of the boy’s arm, but did not pull him up, for the lad fought against him angrily, and then I knew I was that boy staring hard at the doctor, and then at Mr Denning, who came along the deck from the companion-way far-distant, crying—
“Doctor—my sister—come directly—she’s dying!”
The doctor went away directly, and I saw him going what seemed to be miles away, but so gently and easily that it was like something in a dream. Mr Brymer went after him, and the cook and the two men stood watching them till they disappeared through the saloon entrance, while the men in the forecastle kept on singing a chorus, sounding now loud and now soft, just as one hears the music of a great organ when the performer opens and closes the swell.
I don’t know how long it was afterwards, but it did not seem to matter, for everything was so pleasant and calm, before I saw Mr Brymer come back with the doctor, and directly after, though he seemed to be still a long way off, Mr Brymer said—
“I must send another man. He is hanging fast asleep over the wheel.”
Then I saw Mr Frewen catch at one of the shrouds and stand gazing at him vacantly, and then I felt quite pleased, for Bob Hampton was there along with Neb Dumlow.
“It is all going to be right now,” I thought, though I did not know that anything was wrong, and I felt as if I was just dropping off into a delicious sleep.