He was a kindly fellow, was the mate. Not only was the stoke hole an inferno in that latitude, but the Hindu firemen would never have ceased gloating over the sahib who had been sentenced to the degradation of working among them.
“No! No!” answered the commander; “The man is a sailor and a steward. He is not a stoker. You had better take him on deck with you, Dick.”
He started up the ladder; but the mate loathed to acknowledge himself defeated. He made a sign to the doctor.
“Stick out your tongue,” commanded Sangrado, suddenly.
I complied.
“Does that look as if he had been without food for forty-eight hours?” demanded the mate.
What he hoped to prove by the question I could not fathom. It would never do to incriminate “Peggy,” and I kept silent. The leech shrugged his shoulders.
“Huh,” muttered the mate, “I know what I’d do with him if I was in command.”
“Take him on deck with you, Dick,” repeated the captain, from above.
“And his accommodation?” put in the chief steward.