Syd was too weak to make much opposition. He had awakened to the fact after his fit of passion that he really was not so bad as he thought. The ship was not dancing about, and there was a bright ray of sunshine cutting the darkness outside the place where he lay, and once or twice he had inhaled a breath of sweet, balmy, summer-like air. Then, too, his head did not swim so much in an erect position, and he let Barney go on talking in his rough, good-humoured fashion, and help him on with some clothes; bring him a bowl of water in which he had a good wash; and when at last he was dressed and sitting back weak and helpless on the locker, the bo’sun said—
“Now, I was going to say have a whiff o’ fresh air first, my lad; but you are a bit pulled down for want o’ wittals. I’ll speak to the cook now, and seeing who you are, I dessay he’ll rig you up a mess of slops as ’ll do you no end o’ good.”
“I couldn’t touch anything, Barney.”
“Yah, lad! you dunno. Said you couldn’t get up, and here you are. Think I can’t manage you. Here, have another hit out at me.”
“Oh, Barney, I am so sorry.”
“Sorry be hanged, lad! I’m glad. You won’t know yourself another hour.”
“But—but I’m going to be sick again, Barney,” gasped the invalid.
“That’s a moral impossibility, my lad, as I werry well know. You sit still while I fetch you something to put in your empty locker. Didn’t know I was such a doctor, did yer?”
Barney stepped out of the door, and went straight for the galley, leaving Syd leaning back in a corner feeling deathly sick, the perspiration standing cold upon his brow, and with an intense longing to lie down once more, and in profound ignorance of what will can do for a sea-sick patient after a certain amount of succumbing.
The threat of the rope’s-end had finished Pan’s bout. Something else was going to act as a specific for Syd’s.