“You can go ahead,” said Walter with dignity, “and I will follow.” Joe made another mutter, but it was unintelligible this time, and Walter made no reply.
“I have had a bad tumble and did not know anything for some time,” said Walter, as he entered the station and found Cook Charlie in a chair by the stove.
“Poor feller!” exclaimed the cook sympathetically. “Sit down here, and I’ll have you some coffee less than no time. What—blood on ye? Here, let me wipe it off.”
“Not serious, I guess.”
“No, only a hard rub. I’ll fix it.”
Charlie insisted on caring for Walter, but the latter said he must care for himself. Cook Charlie’s sympathy though, was pleasant. Something else was agreeable; Walter’s mortification and bruises were all finally drowned in the depth of that sea never cruel but always kind—sleep.
Keeper Barney was walking the next morning through the crew’s sleeping quarters when he heard a stealthy step behind him. With the sound of the steps came the sound of a voice, “Cap’n.”
“Oh, is that you, Joe?”
“Yes, Cap’n. May I have a word with you?” asked Joe Cardridge.