“Steady there, mate,” growled one man. “What yer doing on?”
“Well, get off o’ me, then,” said another.
“Here, hi! What are you doing in my bunk? Hullo! Ahoy there! where are we now?”
“Steady there, and don’t shout, my lads.”
“All right, sir,” growled a voice. “I was a bit confoosed like! Oh, my head!”
“Ay, mate,” said Tom Fillot, “and it’s oh, my, all our heads. Beg pardon, sir, for the liberty, but if you’d do it for me, I should know the worst, and I could get on then. I’m all nohow just now, and it worries me.”
“Do what, Tom?” said Mark.
“Just pass your finger round my head, and tell me for sartin whether it’s broke or no. It feels all opening and shutting like. Go it, sir; don’t you be feared. I won’t holler.”
Mark leaned forward and felt the man’s head.
“It’s not fractured, Tom,” he said. “If it had been it would have made you feel very different from this. You would have been insensible.”