“I ought not, you mean, Tom,” said Mark, bitterly. “I had no business to go below.”
“Nay, don’t say that, sir, ’cause it was your dooty to. Fact is, sir, we was all so knocked about in the upper works that there ain’t a man on us good for much; and you see poor old Joe Dance’s got it bad next to Mr Russell, sir, only we thought him so much better.”
“Yes, I’m better,” said the coxswain. “All right again, mate, but I can’t get over it about them blacks. What was it as—”
“Here, what are you doing with that there wheel?” cried Tom Fillot, rushing at the man, and thrusting him aside. For Dance had suddenly grown excited, and was turning the spokes first in one direction and then in another in a most reckless way, while as he was thrust off, he staggered for a few steps, and then sat down on the wet deck to hold his head with both hands and rock it to and fro.
“Want to send us ashore among the breakers again?” growled Fillot.
“Nay, my lad, nay. There’s something wrong in my head, and it wants fishing or splicing, sir. It won’t go. Them blacks has got in it somehow, and I can’t get ’em out.”
“Go below and lie down, Dance,” said Mark, gently. “You’ll be better after a good long sleep.”
“Sleep, sir? No, I can’t sleep. Who’s to take my trick at the wheel? Point or two more, sir; and, Tom Fillot lad, what was it about them blacks?”
“Help him down below,” said Mark, and two of the men lifted the poor fellow to his feet and then helped him down to the place prepared for the crew close to the skipper’s cabin.
“He’ll come round again, sir,” said Tom from the wheel. “Spoke or two loose in his steering gear, that’s all. Lucky I got to him in time, or we should have been ashore hard and fast.”