“Well, my lads,” said a hearty voice just then; “how long are you going to play at being old women? Come, rouse a bit.”
“No, thankye, sir,” said Jem, in a miserable tone. “Bit? I haven’t bit anything since I’ve been aboard.”
“Then rouse up, and bite something now,” cried the boatswain. “Come, my lad,” he continued, turning to Don, “you’ve got too much stuff in you to lie about like this. Jump up, and come on deck in the fresh air.”
“I feel so weak, sir; I don’t think I could stand.”
“Oh, yes, you can,” said the boatswain. “That’s better. If you give way to it, you’ll be here for a week.”
“Are we nearly there, sir?” said Jem, with a groan.
“Nearly there? You yellow-faced lubber. What do you mean?”
“Where we’re going to,” groaned Jem.
“Nearly there? No. Why?”
“Because I want to go ashore again. I’m no use here.”