“Go on,” cried the doctor. “It takes ten table-spoonfuls to properly try that stuff.”
Steve went on, took his ten table-spoonfuls, and felt better.
“Hah! I knew you would,” cried the doctor. “Now look: we must keep up that medicine till further orders, and see if we can’t bring the men round. There are plenty of tins of preserved meat in store?”
“Any amount, sir; and plenty of reindeer meat still.”
“Then we shan’t break down there. Now, then, captain, en avant!”
They returned to the cabin, Steve carrying a small basin and the doctor a large one, which he handed down to Johannes on the way, the Norseman receiving it in a sad, awed, depressed way, and promising to eat it at once. But they had very little success in the cabin, and Steve’s spirits, which had been rising, sank again as they returned to the galley, where the cook was ready with a great tin bucket full of the steaming stuff, regular meat essence in its strength.
From here they went down into the forecastle, dim, steamy, and with snowflakes floating here and there. Two or three of the men sat near the stove, but for the most part they were in their bunks, and all greeted the new-comers with a hollow-eyed stare. Their basins were half filled and taken from bunk to bunk; but the men could hardly be roused to eat, and at times the doctor had to angrily insist before they could be induced to try to partake of the steaming preparation.
Watty was the first for whom Steve made in the dark, depressing place, and found him lying dim-eyed, half stupefied, gazing at the light. He thought of how he had roused the lad up before again and again, but the spirit was wanting, on both sides now; and after with great difficulty inducing the lad to partake of a few spoonfuls of the so-called medicine, Watty sank back, and then felt slowly for Steve’s hand.
“I’m thenkin’, Meester Stevey,” he whispered, “that she’ll ket pack to Scotland.”
“Yes, and you too,” said Steve, with as much heart as he could put into his words—little enough, though.