“H'air!” cried the poor devil—“h'air; I'm fainting!”
Just then there came another groan from the man in the opposite bunk. “Well, I'm blessed!” said the giant, as he held the gasping tailor by the collar and glared round him. “Here's a pretty go! All the blessed chickens ha' got the croup!”
The groaning of the man in the bunk redoubled.
“Pass the word to the sentry,” says someone more humane than the rest. “Ah,” says the humorist, “pass him out; it'll be one the less. We'd rather have his room than his company.”
“Sentry, here's a man sick.”
But the sentry knew his duty better than to reply. He was a young soldier, but he had been well informed of the artfulness of convict stratagems; and, moreover, Captain Vickers had carefully apprised him “that by the King's Regulations, he was forbidden to reply to any question or communication addressed to him by a convict, but, in the event of being addressed, was to call the non-commissioned officer on duty.” Now, though he was within easy hailing distance of the guard on the quarter-deck, he felt a natural disinclination to disturb those gentlemen merely for the sake of a sick convict, and knowing that, in a few minutes, the third relief would come on duty, he decided to wait until then.
In the meantime the tailor grew worse, and began to moan dismally.
“Here! 'ullo!” called out his supporter, in dismay. “Hold up 'ere! Wot's wrong with yer? Don't come the drops 'ere. Pass him down, some of yer,” and the wretch was hustled down to the doorway.
“Vater!” he whispered, beating feebly with his hand on the thick oak.
“Get us a drink, mister, for Gord's sake!”