“Did you say wittles?” cried Dumlow, suddenly.
“Ay, mate, I did.”
“Why, I ’members something ’bout wittles. O’ course. Me and you, Bob.”
“When? Where?”
“Ah, I dunno when it was, nor wheer it was, but—”
“She’s dying—she’s dying,” I cried; for those words came cutting through the black silence, and gave me quite a pang.
“Who’s she? And what’s she a-dying for?” growled Bob Hampton.
“Toe be sure, mate,” said Dumlow, “that’s what Mr Denning says as he come out of his cabin. ‘She’s dying,’ he says, and you and me got up and sat down again feeling as silly as two booby birds.”
“Here, you don’t know what you’re talking about, messmate,” said Bob Hampton.
“Yes, he does,” I cried excitedly, for a greater light seemed to have now flashed into my brain. “You did go into the saloon to have— Oh, Bob Hampton, I recollect it all now.”