“You’re precious hot and feverish,” I said. “You had better have the door open too.”
I propped the cabin-door wide, so that the air might pass through, and then added, gruffly enough—
“Shipbuilders are awful fools to make such little round windows,” but, as I said it, I felt all the time that the little iron-framed circular window that could be screwed up, air and water-tight, had been the saving of many a ship in rough seas.
“Hadn’t you better drink some water?” I said next, as I saw him pass his dry tongue over his parched lips.
“Please,” he said feebly; and, as I took the glass of water, passed my arm under his head to hold him up and let him drink, I said to myself—
“You cowardly, treacherous brute!—the bullet ought to have killed you, or we should have let you drown.”
“Hah!” he sighed, as, after sipping a little of the water and swallowing it painfully, he began taking long deep draughts with avidity, just as if the first drops had moistened his throat and made a way for the rest.
“Have another glass?” I said abruptly.
He bowed his head, and I let him down gently; though, as I thought of Miss Denning, her brother, and the burning ship, I felt that I ought to let him down with as hard a bump as I could.
I filled the glass again, and once more lifted him and let him drink, scowling at him all the time.