“What's the matter here, sentry?” he asked.
“Prisoner ill, sir. Doctor sent him to hospital.”
“But there should be two.”
The other came from behind the break of the berths. It was Rufus Dawes. He held by the side as he came, and saluted.
“I felt sick, sir, and was trying to get the scuttle open.”
The heads were all raised along the silent line, and eyes and ears were eager to see and listen. The double tier of bunks looked terribly like a row of wild beast cages at that moment.
Maurice Frere stamped his foot indignantly.
“Sick! What are you sick about, you malingering dog? I'll give you something to sweat the sickness out of you. Stand on one side here!”
Rufus Dawes, wondering, obeyed. He seemed heavy and dejected, and passed his hand across his forehead, as though he would rub away a pain there.
“Which of you fellows can handle an oar?” Frere went on. “There, curse you, I don't want fifty! Three'll do. Come on now, make haste!”