“That I’ll be a good boy, and won’t do so any more.”
“Well, is there anything to be ashamed of in that, sir?”
“I couldn’t do it—I wouldn’t do it.”
“Then you’re a coward.”
“No, I’m not,” retorted Steve angrily.
“You are—a miserable moral coward; and I thought you had more pluck in you—more of the honest, manly pluck of an English boy who is brave enough to own to a fault.”
“I’m not a coward,” muttered Steve. “I’d show you if there was any occasion,” and he stood frowning.
“Bah! Any big, strong, stupid fellow, with no brains to boast about, can jump overboard to save any one or do anything of that kind. I want to see you act like a brave fellow who is ready to make a bit of sacrifice of his own feelings, and behave in a manly way. Come, I’m giving you good advice. We shall have bad weather enough to deal with out in the open; we don’t want any moral bad weather in the cabin. Go to the captain, and speak out frankly. Do you know what he will do?”
“Look at me, as he did just now.”
“That’s insulting a brave man and my friend, sir,” said the doctor sternly. “I know Captain Marsham better than you do, then. He will do nothing of the kind. He will listen calmly and dispassionately to all you have to say, and then perhaps point out a few things.”