“Why, it’s Smith!” exclaimed the doctor.
“Water—food!” gasped the poor wretch, lying prostrate on his side.
These were given him, and the doctor added some spirit, with the effect that the poor fellow began to revive, and at last sat up on the deck.
“And how did you get here?” I said.
“Got on board at night!” he gasped. “Crept into the cask—meant to get out—but packed in!”
“Did I not refuse you permission to come, sir?” cried the doctor, shaking his fist.
“Yes, uncle!” gasped the stowaway; “but Fanny said, if I didn’t come and take care of you, she—she would never—speak to me—any more! Oh, dear! please stop the ship! I feel so poorly!”
“It’s a wonder you were not starved to death,” said the doctor.
“Or smothered,” I said.
“Ye-yes,” stammered the poor fellow. “I was all right till they packed things all round me, and then I couldn’t get out!”