“Sort man I am,” he said, autobiographically. “Feel my arm.”
The indignant Bill took him by both, and throwing himself upon him suddenly fell with him to the floor. The intruder’s head met the boards with a loud crash, and then there was silence.
“You ain’t killed ’im, Bill?” said an old seaman, stooping over him anxiously.
“Course not,” was the reply; “give us some water.”
He threw some in the soldier’s face, and then poured some down his neck, but with no result. Then he stood upright, and exchanged glances of consternation with his friends.
“I don’t like the way he’s breathing,” he said, in a trembling voice.
“You always was pertikler, Bill,” said the cook, who had thankfully got to the bottom of his staircase. “If I was you—”
He was not allowed to proceed any further; footsteps and a voice were heard above, and as old Thomas hastily extinguished the lamp, the mate’s head was thrust down the scuttle, and the mate’s voice sounded a profane reveillé.
“Wot are we goin’ to do with it?” inquired Ted, as the mate walked away.
“I’m, Ted,” said Bill, nervously. “He’s alive all right.”