The hospital was nothing more nor less than a partitioned portion of the lower deck, filched from the space allotted to the soldiers. It ran fore and aft, coming close to the stern windows, and was, in fact, a sort of artificial stern cabin. At a pinch, it might have held a dozen men.
Though not so hot as in the prison, the atmosphere of the lower deck was close and unhealthy, and the girl, pausing to listen to the subdued hum of conversation coming from the soldiers' berths, turned strangely sick and giddy. She drew herself up, however, and held out her hand to a man who came rapidly across the misshapen shadows, thrown by the sulkily swinging lantern, to meet her. It was the young soldier who had been that day sentry at the convict gangway.
“Well, miss,” he said, “I am here, yer see, waiting for yer.”
“You are a good boy, Miles; but don't you think I'm worth waiting for?”
Miles grinned from ear to ear.
“Indeed you be,” said he.
Sarah Purfoy frowned, and then smiled.
“Come here, Miles; I've got something for you.”
Miles came forward, grinning harder.
The girl produced a small object from the pocket of her dress. If Mrs. Vickers had seen it she would probably have been angry, for it was nothing less than the captain's brandy-flask.