“You have no business to walk,” said the doctor. “I must have you carried, sir.”
“Na, na; she’ll stay here.”
“Bah! don’t be absurd, boy. I know what is best for you. Here, Steve, my lad, go and fetch two of the men to carry him in. I’m glad I heard of this in time.”
“Dinna gang, Meester Stevey; oh, dinna gang!” cried Watty.
“I must; I’m ordered to go,” cried Steve quickly, as he ran back to the ship, and then hunted out Andrew and Hamish from the forecastle to come and bear the lad to the deck.
“She wass ferry well at breakfast,” said Andrew. “She must ha’ been eating something since then,” for Andrew’s ideas of illness were always in connection with eating or drinking too much. “Phwat will she say’s the matter?”
“He told the doctor he was very bad,” replied Steve, “and you’re to carry him.”
“She wass ferry sorry for the puir laddie, and she’ll carry her on her pack.”
But Andrew was not allowed to carry Watty in on his “pack,” but under the doctor’s instructions, and, in spite of the lad’s remonstrances, they passed hands under him, made him throw his arms over their shoulders, and prepared to start.
“She winna go!” cried Watty, struggling faintly.