Then her eyes closed again, she sank deeper into the pillow, and was again asleep.
“Here, boy!” croaked the master of the Gullwing, trying to speak softly. “You run and tell the doctor to kill a chicken and make some broth—strong broth, now. Don’t want no ‘phantom soup’—suthin’ that tastes like a chicken did more than wade through a gallon of water on stilts. If he don’t make it good I’ll be in his wool!”
I ran to do his bidding. I knew very well that the little girl would have the very best of everything there was upon the big schooner.
In the dog-watch I held a regular reception. The men were eager to hear the story of my adventure overboard, and old Tom Thornton declared I might live to be “a second Methuserlum” and never experience a closer call than that. Old Stronson shook his head.
“De poy iss fey,” he muttered, shaking his head.
“He’s sure a lucky youngster,” declared Bob Promise. “No wonder he got the best of me when we had our set-to.”
Thank and I had much to talk over. I know my chum had suffered in spirit when it seemed that I was drowned. He never would admit to the others that he had given up hope of seeing me again. Now he clung close around me and did not seem to want to let me out of his sight—not even long enough for me to go down to take a look at Dao Singh.
“Let that Jasper be, Sharp,” Thank drawled. “You can’t kill a nigger easy—sleep won’t hurt him. If he was pretty near two weeks on watch in that boat, no wonder he’s all in.”
“He is a faithful creature,” I said. “And he must love his mistress.”
“That Jasper’s taken a fancy to you, too,” Thank said. “You’re ‘it’ with him.”