He had been seated there a few minutes when there was a light step, and a little figure appeared surmounted by the comically withered countenance of Jenkins.
“Hallo, Belton!” he cried. “Up again. Better?”
“No; I feel very ill.”
“Never mind. You do look mouldy, though. Can I get you anything?”
“No; I couldn’t touch a bit.”
“Couldn’t you? Keep your head to the wind, lad, and get well. Old Mike Terry’s getting horrid saucy again, so look sharp and bung him up.”
The little fellow popped up on deck, and took the news, with the effect that Bolton came and said a word of congratulation, and he was followed by Roylance.
“Oh, I am glad, old fellow,” cried the latter. “You’ve had a nasty bout. But, I say, your eyes are all right again, and the swelling’s gone from your lip.”
“Has it?” said Syd, feebly, as if nothing mattered now.
“Yes; you’ll very soon come round. We’ve run down with a rush before that nor’-easter, and we’re getting into lovely summer weather. Coming on deck?”