“Got a drink o’ water, messmets?”
“Plenty, my lad,” said Tom Fillot, passing the tin. “How’s your head this morning?”
“Bit achey,” said the coxswain, who took the tin and drained it.
“Hah!” he ejaculated, as he drew a long, deep breath, “that’s good, but you forgot to send it through the skipper’s pilfer.”
“Warn’t time, matey,” said Tom watching him curiously. “’Sides, pilfered water ain’t good for you.”
“Feel better this morning, Dance?” said Mark.
“Yes, sir, thankye sir. Head aches a deal and feels muzzy like, and I didn’t sleep quite as I should like. Too much bad dream to please me.”
“No wonder, mate,” struck in Tom Fillot. “Having your head rubbed so hard with a big bat ain’t good for no one.”
Mark sat by his brother officer in the comparative coolness trying to think out some plan to adopt, for though they were resting in the shade, and the agonies of thirst were assuaged, he knew that it would not be long before they were all suffering from hunger, and he shuddered as he thought of the tales he had heard respecting the straits men had been driven to when perishing for want of food in an open boat.
But though he thought long and patiently, no idea came to him better than for them to coast along till they came abreast of some village, though he felt very little hope of meeting with such good fortune upon that sparsely inhabited shore. Further north there were towns and villages, but these were hundreds of miles away.