“You are better off than he, Boyle. Unless he is here with you, I guess he is rolling on the floor of the Pacific by this time.”
Boyle tried to turn and survey his fellow-sufferers; there was the fire of battle in his eye. Courtenay restrained him with a laugh.
“A nice thing I am doing,” he cried, “permitting you to talk, and getting you excited. I believe you would punch the scoundrel now if he were in the next berth. You must lie quiet, old man; doctor’s orders; he says you’re on the royal road if you keep on the easy list for a day or so.”
Boyle smiled, and closed his eyes.
“I heard the anchors go, and then I knew that all was well. You’re the luckiest skipper afloat. Huh, the bloomin’ Kansas was lost not once but twenty times.”
“Are you in pain, Boyle?” asked Courtenay, placing a gentle hand on his friend’s forehead.
“Not much. More stiff than sore. It was a knock-out blow of its kind. I can just recall you hauling me out of the scrimmage, and—”
“It will be your turn to do as much for me next time. Try to go to sleep; we’ll have you on deck tomorrow.”
Courtenay noticed that there were only four other sufferers in the saloon: Three were firemen injured by the explosion. He had a pleasant word for each of them. The fourth was a sailor, either asleep or unconscious, and Courtenay thought he recognized a severe bruise on the man’s left temple where the butt of his revolver had struck hard.
When he returned on deck he learned that two other members of the crew, in addition to the cook, were able to work. Walker had set one to clear up the stokehold; his companion, a fireman, had relieved Mr. Tollemache. Indeed, the latter had gone to his cabin, and was the last to arrive at the feast, finally putting in an appearance in a new suit and spotless linen.