“Too weak.”
“Not you. Do you good. But I must go back on deck. Regular drill on.”
He hurried away, and Syd was leaning back utterly prostrated, when there was another step, and he opened his eyes to see that the figure which darkened the door was that of Terry, who came into the low dark place, and stood looking down at his late antagonist with a sneering contemptuous smile which was increased to a laugh.
“What a poor miserable beggar!” he said, as if talking to himself. “Talk about the sailor’s sick parrot. Ha, ha, ha!”
A faint tinge of colour began to dawn in Syd’s face. “Well,” said Terry; “what are you staring at?”
Syd made no reply, only kept his eyes fixed on his enemy, and panted slightly.
“Hadn’t you better go and ask your father to put you ashore somewhere, miss?” sneered Terry. “You ought to be sent home in a Bath chair.”
Syd made no reply, and Terry, who under his assumed nonchalant sneering aspect was simmering with rage at the sight of his conqueror, went on glorying in the chance to trample on a fallen enemy, and trying to work him up to do something which would give him an excuse for delivering a blow.
“I can’t think what officers are about to bring such miserable sickly objects on board the King’s ships to upset and annoy everybody with their miserable long-shore ways. It’s a scandal to the service.”
Still Syd made no answer, and emboldened by the silence Terry went on.