“It’s no use talking, Dale, my lad,” said Mr Brymer huskily, “we must save the ship—we will. Now, then, let’s get a handful of food a-piece and look in on the captain before we go back.”
I followed him into the right cabin, where a freshly-opened tin of beef, some biscuits, and a can of fresh water stood ready on a white cloth, and we both began to eat ravenously.
“There’s an angel for you, Dale,” mumbled the mate, with his mouth full. “Right kind of angel too, who can open meat-tins for hungry men, and who knows that even now it’s nicer off a white cloth. I don’t wonder at the doctor.”
“What about the doctor?” I said curiously, as I too ate as if I had not had anything for a month.
“Never you mind. Fill your fists and come along. Eat as we go.”
We each covered a biscuit with meat and laid another on the top, to form the hardest sandwiches ever made by man, and then hurried into the next cabin, where Captain Berriman was lying on a mattress.
“Ah, Brymer! At last!” he cried. “Well?”
“Yes, it’s well, skipper,” said Mr Brymer. “I think we shall save the ship.”
Captain Berriman’s lips moved, as his eyes closed for a few moments.
“Can you eat this?” said the mate, offering his sandwich.