The Breezy arrived at Zanzibar all right in two days' time, in spite of the storm.
War-worn and weary, that same night the good surgeon had sunk to sleep among his wounded men on deck, and some kind-hearted sailor had drawn a tarpaulin over him. It was broad daylight when he awoke him.
"I let you sleep, sir. I thought you needed it. Another man dead, sir, and poor boy Bungle going fast, I fear. Insensible now."
"Just let him sleep," said McTavish.
But when Kep went back to the brave little lad's hammock Bungle opened his eyes, and smiled faintly.
"Is there anything you would like, Bungle?"
"In dis world, no," was the faint reply. "But you speakee my ole mudder. Tell she, dat Bungle nevah fo'got."
Then his left hand was half raised to his brow as if to touch his forelock. Next moment it fell heavily on the coverlet.
Bungle was gone.
Only a little black boy? True, but may we all do our duty as bravely and well in the world as Bungle did his.