"Well, we'll do our best, sir," I replied lightly.
I shut the strong-room door, and Lane locked it; and, as I turned, I saw the white face of Pye in the background. He had been missing from breakfast, and he looked very sickly, very pale, and very much abashed. The Prince noticed him, too, and addressed him sharply.
"Why are you here, sir? What do you mean by leaving your quarters? I will have discipline kept on this ship."
"I have no quarters," pleaded Pye humbly. "I was feeling sick, and lay down in my bunk."
"You shall get to your quarters now, sir," declared the Prince severely. "Sir John, order this man to his post."
The little man was so downcast, and was obviously so unwell, that I took pity on him, and cheered him as he went upstairs.
"Never mind, Pye," I said. "We'll pull through."
He shook his head. "Ah, it isn't that," he said. "But I disgraced myself, doctor. I'm not built that way. It was awful—awful." He shuddered.
"Yes, we'll get our little tum-tums full of it now, I guess," remarked Lane cheerfully. "You freeze on to your barker, boy. You'll need it before we fetch up at Albert Docks again. It's Execution Docks for some of us, I'll lay. Have a cigar, doctor?"
I accepted, but Pye refused, turning a sallow hue. His nerves had not yet recovered, and he had certainly drunk a good deal of brandy. Ellison and Jackson were on watch below, and when we reached the corridor Grant signalled us in a whisper from his peep-hole.