Whilst the captain was talking, I began to think of Dennis O’Moore, and how he groaned, and to wonder whether it was true that he would get better, and whether it would be improper to ask the captain, who would not be likely to humbug me, if he answered at all.
“Well?” said the captain sharply, “what are you standing there like a stuck pig for?”
I saluted. “Please, sir, will he get better?”
“What the —— Oh, yes. And hi, you!”
“Yes, sir?”
“He’s in the steerage. You may go and see if
he wants anything, and attend on him. You may remain below at present.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I lost no time in finding Mr. Johnson, and I got a delicious cup of coffee and half a biscuit from the cook, who favoured me in consequence of the conscientious scouring I had bestowed upon his pans. Then mightily warmed and refreshed, I made my way to the side of the hammock I had swung for the rescued lad, and by the light of a swinging lamp saw his dark head buried in his arms.
When I said, “Do you want anything?” he lifted his face with a jerk, and looked at me.