“Yes, he’ll do now,” said a familiar voice. “He’s getting on. Head beautifully cool.”
“Eh?” I said, staring at the speaker.
“Well, skipper, that was a narrow touch for you, I thought once you were gone.”
“So did I,” was my reply; “but how did you and Bostock get out?”
“Wandering a little still,” said the doctor, in a whisper to Bostock. “Get out?” he said aloud. “Oh, easily enough.”
“But, but,” I said, faintly, holding my hand to my head—“that horrible crater!”
“Lie still, my dear captain,” he said, “and don’t worry. You’ll be stronger in a day or two.”
“But tell me!” I said, appealingly.
“Well, there’s little to tell,” he said, smiling. “Only that you pitched head first twenty feet down the slope of that iceberg three weeks ago, and you’ve been in a raging fever ever since.”
“Then the overturning of the iceberg—the dive of the steamer—the seven frozen sailors—the crater?”