“Will they bury me at sea, Barney?”
“Haw—haw—haw!” laughed the bo’sun. “He thinks he’s going to die! Why, Master Syd, I did think you had a better heart.”
“You don’t know how ill I am,” said the boy, feebly.
“Yes I do, zackly. I’ve seen lots bad like you, on’y it arn’t bad, but doing you good.”
“No, Barney; you don’t know,” said Syd, a little more forcibly.
“Why, you haven’t been so bad as my Pan-y-mar was till I cured him.”
“Did you cure him?” said Syd, beginning to take more interest in the bo’sun’s words.
“Ay, my lad, in quarter of an hour.”
“Do you think you could cure me, Barney? I don’t want to die just yet.”
“On’y hark at him.”