“Why, Arthur, where are the people who look after you?” demanded Billie. “I thought you were not allowed on deck alone.”
“The doctor is having his bath and the others are still asleep. I dressed alone and came up. Isn’t it fun? You’ll look after me, won’t you?”
“Of course,” said Billie, “but aren’t you disobeying orders? Won’t the doctor be angry with you, and perhaps with us, too, for letting you stay on deck?”
“But I have on my reefer and cap,” objected the boy in the tone of one who gives orders and expects them to be obeyed. “I shall not go down.”
“Very well,” said Billie, “if that is your decision, we are delighted to have your company, and I hope the walk will do you good. You look as if you needed fresh air and exercise more than anything else.”
“The doctor says that draughts are bad for me and I am not strong enough to take exercise.”
“What are you doing now but exercising in one of the finest draughts that ever blew over the sea, and it only brings the color to your cheeks,” exclaimed Feargus impatiently. “Where are your parents, boy, that you are left to the care of old fogy doctors and careless tutors?”
“Papa is always very busy,” answered the child. “Mamma died ever so many years ago.”
“You blessed child,” cried Billie, pressing little Arthur to her side, “you dear little boy. I’ll be a big sister to you, if that will help any.”
“I like you,” said Arthur ingenuously, “and I like you, too,” he added to Feargus. “You are the nicest one on the ship and they won’t let me speak to you. They never will let me speak to the nicest ones.”