Telemac smiled.
“Evidently not heart trouble,” he said.
“Shall I carry you to your stateroom, Arthur?” asked the doctor.
“If you please, doctor. I am sorry I can’t play with you any longer, Telemac. I am very delicate, you know. I must be so careful. The doctors never let me run and romp.”
The doctor lifted the child into his arms. The little face was quite pale and melancholy again, and as he waved with his thin, small hand a feeble good-by, he looked so ill and exhausted that the girls were almost convinced.
“Stuff and nonsense,” exclaimed Telemac. “I should like to wring that ignorant fellow’s neck for putting such ideas into the child’s head! He’s a dear little fellow, too.”
“Think how I feel,” cried Billie. “A murderess! My goodness!”
There was a bugle call for lunch, and the young people, whose spirits had been temporarily quenched by the sour-faced doctor, hastened into the dining-room.
CHAPTER IV.—AN EPISODE ON DECK.
“‘A wet sheet and a flowing sea
And a wind that follows fast
And fills the white and rustling sail
And bends the gallant mast;
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While like the eagle free
Away the good ship flies and leaves
Old England on the lee.’”