"All right," was the rejoinder. "Carry on."
The lascar told off to share Mostyn's watch came aft, rubbing his eyes and yawning.
"Me no well, sahib," he said. "Me tink me die."
"Take the wheel," ordered Peter, using the term instead of tiller, since the lascar was well acquainted with the word "wheel".
The man grasped the tiller without another word. His little ruse was a "wash-out", and, finding that his imaginary ailment received no sympathy, he carried on as if nothing had happened.
Mostyn then proceeded to attend to his injured brother-officer, washing his wounds and feeding him with biscuit.
Preston was still very weak, but quite rational in his speech. His prolonged sleep had restored his mental powers, but he was unable to move without assistance.
"What's happened, old man?" he inquired. "I've been racking my brains to find out how I got laid out. I remember lowering away the boat, and after that everything's a blank."
"You got a smack with the lower block swaying," replied Peter. "At least that's what I was told. They didn't pick me up for a couple of hours or more after the ship went down."
"And the Old Man?" asked Preston.