No treatment could have been more effectual in bringing Nigel to his senses than this whisper.
“Is—is—Van der Kemp safe?” he asked anxiously.
“All right—only stunned, I think. That’s him they’re just goin’ to carry below. Put ’im in my bunk, Mr Moor.”
“Ay ay, sir.”
Nigel sprang up. “Stay, father,” he said in a low voice. “She must not see him for the first time like this.”
“All right, boy. I understand. You leave that to me. My bunk has bin shifted for’id—more amidships—an’ Kathy’s well aft. They shan’t be let run foul of each other. You go an’ rest on the main hatch till we get him down. Why, here’s a nigger! Where did you pick him? oh! I remember. You’re the man we met, I suppose, wi’ the hermit on Krakatoa that day o’ the excursion from Batavia.”
“Yes, das me. But we’ll meet on Krakatoa no more, for dat place am blown to bits.”
“I’m pretty well convinced o’ that by this time, my man. Not hurt much, I hope?”
“No, sar—not more ’n I can stan’. But I’s ’fraid dat poor Spinkie’s a’most used up—hallo! what you gwine to do with massa?” demanded the negro, whose wandering faculties had only in part returned.
“He’s gone below. All right. Now, you go and lie down beside my son on the hatch. I’ll—see to Van der Kemp.”