He scrutinised me as well as he could by the early light of morning, now coming in through the open cabin door, which he had not been able to close again, the wind holding it back and resisting all his strength.
Tom Jerrold, too, aroused by Weeks’ voice and the cold current of air that was blowing in upon him, rubbed his eyes, and standing up in his bunk while holding on to the top rail of mine, had also a good look at me.
“Bah!” cried he at length. “You’re only sea-sick.”
That was all the consolation he gave me as he shoved himself into his clothes; and then, hastily lugging on a thick monkey-jacket hurried out on deck.
“A nice mess you’ve made, too, of the cabin.”
This was Master Weeks’ sympathy as he took possession of Jerrold’s vacated bunk and quietly composed himself to sleep, regardless of my groans and deaf to all further appeals for aid.
Tim Rooney, however, was the most unkind of all.
Later on in the morning he popped in his head at the cabin door.
“Arrah, sure now, Misther Gray-ham, arn’t ye sorry ye iver came to say, at all at all?”
I should like to have pitched something at him, although I knew what he would say the moment he opened his mouth, with that comical grin of his and the cunning wink of his left eye.