He made his way below, and turning in slept soundly after his fatigue until the cook aroused him a few hours later with the information that breakfast was ready.
A wash and a change, together with a good breakfast, effected as much change in his spirits as in his appearance. Refreshed in mind and body, he slowly paced the deck, his chest expanding as he sniffed the fresh air, and his soul, encouraged by the dangers he had already passed through, bracing itself for fresh encounters.
“I ’ope the foot is goin’ on well, sir,” said Tim, breaking in upon his meditations, respectfully.
“Much easier this morning,” said the skipper, amiably.
Tim, who was lending the cook a hand, went back into the galley to ponder. As a result of a heated debate in the fo’c’s’le, where the last night’s proceedings and the mysterious appearance of the skipper off Greenwich had caused a great sensation, they had drawn lots to decide who was to bell the cat, and Tim had won or lost according as the subject might be viewed.
“You don’t want to walk about on it much, sir,” he said, thrusting his head out again.
The skipper nodded.
“I was alarmed last night,” said Tim. “We was all alarmed,” he added, hastily, in order that the others might stand in with the risk, “thinking that perhaps you’d walked too far and couldn’t get back.”
The master of the Foam looked at him, but made no reply, and Tim’s head was slowly withdrawn. The crew, who had been gazing over the side with their ears at the utmost tension, gave him five minutes’ grace and then, the skipper having gone aft again, walked up to the galley.
“I’ve done all I could,” said the wretched youth.