“But it looks,” protested Jed, “as though Mr. Delavan had accidentally tipped the boat and gone overboard.”
“When you once begin to think,” retorted Joe, stubbornly, “it looks like nothing of the sort.”
Jed Prentiss looked wonderingly from one to the other, but Tom cut in with:
“Take the wheel, Joe, and keep the whistle sounding, for the fog is still thicker than I like to see it. I’m going below to talk with Mr. Delavan’s friend. Jed, you’ll be more useful on deck, at present.”
Moddridge was lying in a berth in the cabin, moaning and holding a handkerchief over his eyes.
“I’ve come to ask you what I’m to do, sir?” Tom called briskly, thinking thus to rouse the nervous one to action.
The only response was another moan.
“Come, rouse yourself, please, and think what’s to be done in your friend’s interests,” urged the young skipper.
There was another moan, before Moddridge answered, in a sepulchral voice: