“You’d better turn in, too, Carline,” said Mr. Grant. “We aren’t getting under way to-day, and perhaps not to-morrow either. We want fair weather for the run past Portland Bill, and, judging by this morning’s sunrise, we aren’t going to get it just at present.”
Going to his own cabin, Mr. Grant saw that Marner was awake.
“Feelin’ fine, sir,” replied the man in answer to the Scoutmaster’s enquiry. “But I’m fair hungry. That beef tea was all very well, but it don’t fill a man’s innards, in a manner o’ speakin’, sir. Can’t I have somethin’ as ’as got summat to bite at?”
“I think so, now,” said Mr. Grant, smiling at the Cornishman’s quaintly phrased request. “And a boat’s coming for you some time before noon. You’ll be given your fare to Falmouth, and with luck you’ll be home to-night. But you’ll have to be careful with that head of yours, and not shake yourself up too much on your motor bike.”
A look of bewilderment spread over the bronzed features of Dick Marner, junior.
“Moty bike, sir?” he rejoined. “Can’t say as I follers what you’m meaning.”
It was Mr. Grant’s turn to look surprised. Could it be that Marner was suffering from partial loss of memory owing to the injury to his head?
“Surely you remember your motor bicycle at your father’s place at Polkebo?”
“Never ’ad a moty bicycle in my life, sir,” was the astounding reply. “Couldn’t ride un if I ’ad.”
The Scoutmaster made no comment, but thought the more. Apparently the situation required careful handling, but before he could frame a suitable question, Dick Marner continued: