“And we jolly sailor boys were up, up aloft,
And the landlubbers lying down below, below, below,
And the landlubbers lying down below.”
Then there was a pause, and the scratching of a pen as if some one were writing. The noise began again, and Mark, as he lay in his cot, chuckled; but though he did not know it, his silent laugh was in a feeble way.
At last he spoke. “What’s the matter, young ’un?”
There was a quick movement, and the light was shut out by Bob Howlett, who rushed to his side and caught him by the shoulders.
“Matter? There’s nothing the matter now, old chap. Hip—hip—hip—hurray! You are getting better, then?”
“Better? Have I been ill?”
“Ill? Oh, I suppose you can’t call it being ill, because it wasn’t Humpty Dums, or Winkey Wanks, or Grim Fever; but I thought you were going to die, old chap, or do some other mean and shabby thing. I say, how do you feel?”
“All right, only I thought you had something the matter with you.”
“Me? Why?”
“You were groaning so when I woke up.”