“Recollect what?”
“The going off in the first cutter with poor old Russell to pick up that nigger?”
“No,” said Mark, dreamily. “I don’t recollect any—Yes I do, and we found him, and—I say, Bob, what’s wrong with my head? I can’t think properly.”
“Won’t draw. Chimney wants sweeping, old chap. But don’t you fidget about that,” cried Bob, laying a hand upon his companion’s forehead, and then feeling his pulse with much professional correctness. “Temperature normal, sir; pulse down to one. We must exhibit tonics, sir; sulph quin pulv rhei; liquor diachylon. Great improvement, my dear sir. Allow me your tongue.”
“Don’t be a fool, Bob. Tell me, there’s a good chap.”
“Ah! I remember now,” cried Mark, excitedly. “Tom Fillot let the poor fellow slide overboard, and Mr Russell and the men were all down with the heat, and then—Yes, I recollect now; I went to sleep.”
“Yes, you did, old chap,” said Bob Howlett, holding his messmate’s thin hand in his; “and it seemed such a sound sleep when we picked you up that I began to think you wouldn’t wake again.”
“But do pray tell me,” cried Mark, excitedly. “How was it? We were all dying of hunger and thirst in the boat. Stop, how is Mr Russell?”
“Bad. Can’t rustle a bit; but he’s coming round.”
“And Dance, and Tom Fillot, and the others?”