“He says ‘ship ahoy!’ sir,” I explained to the doctor. “‘What ship is that?’”
“Tell him who we are, then,” replied Dr Nettleby. “He is probably out of his mind, but it may quiet him.”
“Somos marineros Inglesas—we are English sailors,” I therefore cried in as shrill a key as I could to reach his ear, raking up the almost forgotten memories of my early years, and, I’m afraid, speaking very bad Spanish. “Del buque de guerra el Candahar de la regna Ingleterra—we belong to Her Majesty’s ship, Candahar!”
Bad Spanish or not, however, the poor fellow understood me.
“Gracias a Dios!” he said, his wild eyes brightening with a gleam of intelligence, as Mr Jellaby and Bill Bates, having unloosed him from the ropes by which he was seized up to the rigging, brought him across the deck to the doctor, who at once put a small quantity of brandy between his lips. “Habran llegado a tiempo.”
“What is that, eh?”
“‘Thanks be to God,’” I replied, translating what he had said. “‘You’ve just come in time.’”
“He never made a truer statement,” observed the doctor, significantly, as he plied him gently from time to time with the spirit, keeping his hand on his pulse the while. “In another half-hour he would have been a dead man; for, his circulation is down to nothing!”
Presently, the effects of the brandy told upon the poor fellow and he sprang suddenly to his feet by a sort of spasmodic effort, knocking Corporal Macan backwards into the water which was washing about the deck around us as he stood up.
“Ah los marineros cobardes!” he cried. “Vamos printo, hascia abajo!”