“Is that you, bo’sun?”
“Ay, ay, my lad; me it is. Come, rouse and bit.”
“I couldn’t, Barney,” said Syd, feebly. “The very thought of a bit of anything makes me feel worse.”
“Yah! not it; and I didn’t mean eat; I meant turn out, have a good wash, and dress, and come on deck.”
“I should die if I tried.”
“Die, lad? What, you? Any one would think you was ill.”
“I am, horribly.”
“Yah! nonsense! On’y squirmy. Weather’s calming down now, and you’ll be all right.”
“No, Barney; never any more,” sighed Syd. “I say.”
“Ay, my lad. What is it?”