“Listen,” said the mate. “There goes the steam. Our chief has not been long.”
Round went the screw once more, and away moved the ship.
Poor McBain came staggering from his cabin. Ghastly pale he looked. He had the appearance of one risen from the grave.
He clutched Sandy by the shoulder.
“We are—under—way?” he gasped.
“Yes, yes,” said the surgeon. “Homeward bound, captain.”
“Homeward bound,” muttered the captain, pressing his hand on his brow, as if to recall his memory, which for a time had been unseated from her throne.
For a minute or two the surgeon feared for his captain’s life or reason.
“Drink this, dear sir,” he said; “be seated, too, you are not over well, and there is much to be done.”
“Much to be done?” cried McBain, as soon as he had quaffed the medicine. “I’m better. Thank you, good doctor; thank you, Sandy. There is much to be done. Those words have saved your captain’s life.”