“No,” said the invalid, peevishly, as he glanced quickly from his sister to the doctor and back. “Thank you for helping me, Alison Dale. Lena, your arm; I’ll go below.”
No one spoke till he had disappeared, and then the captain shook his head.
“Poor chap,” he said, with a sigh. “Here, Dale, Walters, carry the fish to the cook; Hampton—Dumlow, swabs and a bucket.”
“Keep tight hold,” I cried to my companion, who was holding the head of the fish by a loop of yarn passed through its gills, while I carried it by getting a good grip of the thin tail.
“Do you want to carry it yourself?”
“Not at all. Too heavy.”
Just then the fish began to quiver as if it were all steel spring, and waggled its tail so sharply that it flung off my grasp, and once more I offended Walters, for the fish fell across his feet.
“There!” he cried, “you can’t deny that. You did it on purpose. A filthy, slimy thing!”
As he stood there with both his hands clenched I thought he was going to strike me; but even if he had it would have made no difference, I should have been obliged to laugh, and laugh I did, till as I was wiping my eyes I found that Jarette the French sailor was close up and looking at me keenly.
“Here, Barney Blane,” I said, “take hold.”