He was an honest, heavy-headed sort of man, who was a good-enough sailor, but afflicted with an abnormal love of sleep when once he got to his bed.
The fact that he could keep on deck forty-eight hours at a stretch if required—as he had done on one occasion when fighting a tearing gale in an old-fashioned windjammer in the China trade—did not interfere with his ability to sleep almost as long when there was no demand upon him.
“These gentlemen are going with me, Mr. Jarvis,” said Nick politely. “I am Nicholas Carter. You know me, I think, for I recognize you.”
“Of course I know you, Mr. Carter. You sailed with me to the South once for more than a week. I don’t forget any one I’ve once known. What is all this about? I’ll have to tell the captain, you know.”
“Say they went away with me,” answered Nick. “I’ll see the captain when he comes to New York next week. I know where he always puts up in town. Good night, Mr. Jarvis.”
“Good night, Mr. Carter! Good luck!” returned the worthy second mate.
He watched the skiff row away, with Chick at the oars, and then, with a yawn, returned to his bunk.
“It’s a funny thing, those two gentlemen going away like this,” he muttered.
A moment later he noticed the valet lying along the deck, and in a scandalized tone he ordered one of his men to “wake up that souse there.”
They found Jean was not much hurt. When he had been doused with water outwardly, and warmed up within with a serving of grog, he was as good as new, according to the seafaring men who fixed him up.