I suppose it was because I was crying as well as Dennis that I did not see Mr. Johnson till he was standing by the Irish boy’s hammock. I know I got a sound scolding for the state of his pulse (which the third mate seemed to understand, as he understood most things), and was dismissed with some pithy hints
about cultivating common-sense and not making a fool of myself. I sneaked off, and was thankful to meet Alister and pour out my tale to him, and ask if he thought that our new friend would have brain-fever, because I had let him talk about his shipwreck.
Alister was not quite so sympathetic as I had expected. He was so much shocked about the crucifix and about Dennis praying for Barney’s soul, that he could think of nothing else. He didn’t seem to think that he would have fever, but he said he feared we had small reason to reckon on the prayers of the idolatrous ascending to the throne of grace. He told me a long story about the Protestant martyrs who were shut up in a dungeon under the sea, on the coast of Aberdeenshire, and it would have been very interesting if I hadn’t been thinking of Dennis.
We had turned in for some sleep, and I was rolling myself in my blanket, when Alister called me—
“Jack! did ye ever read Fox’s Book of Martyrs?”
“No.”
“It’s a gran’ work, and it has some awful tales in it. When we’ve a bit of holiday leesure I’ll tell ye some.”
“Thank you, Alister.”