Beveridge got up very slowly,—for a new kind of pain was shooting through his joints,—stretched, and, walking bent, like an old man, cautiously made his way to Smiley's post. The sailor was awake; but whether he had been awake all night could hardly be, decided from his face. Beveridge had his suspicions, but decided not to air them.
“Look here, Dick,” he began.
“All right. Go ahead.”
“How are your joints?”
“Never worse. How about yours?”
“Same way. I don't know how you feel, but I've had enough.”
“Can't help that, can we?”
“I can help it, and I'm going to.”
“I'd like to know how.”
“Keep your eyes open and you 'll see. I want you to stay here under cover.”