“Or what?” suggested Bob.
“I think I’ve got it now,” said Dumlow.
“Yes; what is it?”
“All gone mad wi’ being so much out in the sun.”
“You may be mad, Neb, I arn’t, and I don’t mean to. I’ll take my trick at the wheel and box the compass with any on yer. Wheel—wheel,” he added, thoughtfully—“steering. Why arn’t I at the wheel now?”
“’Cause you’re here, messmate,” said Dumlow.
“But I was a-steering when you comes, Mr Dale, sir, and brings me a plate o’ wittles, and you says, says you—”
“Oh!” I cried excitedly.
“No, you didn’t, sir, beggin’ your parding; you says something about could I steer and eat too, and I says—no, you says—no, it was I says; well, it was one or t’other of us, I can’t quite ’member which says, ‘put it on the binnacle,’—and it was put there, and I ate it, and it was very good.”
“Oh!” I cried again, as I pressed my temples with my hands, for I could see a faint gleam of light peeping through into my head, or so it seemed; but it kept on dying out again, and I was blank of memory again as ever.