“Shan’t!”
“But you’d feel ever so much better.”
“How do you know? You go and tell the captain he’s a brute, and I’m not going to get up till I’m better.”
“Not I. It would only be a lie,” I said.
“What?”
“You are ever so much better. Shall I ask the steward to make you some tea?”
“No, I couldn’t touch it, and he wouldn’t make it if you did. This ain’t a London hotel.”
“Of course it isn’t; but he’d make a cup if I asked him.”
“No, he wouldn’t. They’re all brutes here.”
“Look here,” I cried, as I saw how argumentative he could be, and that if he roused himself up he’d be better, “if you don’t jump into your trousers I’ll be a brute too.”