“If we put ’im ashore an’ ’e’s dead,” said old Thomas, “there’ll be trouble for somebody. Better let ’im be, and if ’e’s dead, why we don’t none of us know nothing about it.”
The men ran up on deck, and Bill, being the last to leave, put a boot under the soldier’s head before he left. Ten minutes later they were under way, and standing about the deck, discussed the situation in thrilling whispers as opportunity offered.
At breakfast, by which time they were in a dirty tumbling sea, with the Nore lightship, a brown, forlorn-looking object on their beam, the soldier, who had been breathing stertorously, raised his heavy head from the boot, and with glassy eyes and tightly compressed lips gazed wonderingly about him.
“Wot cheer, mate?” said the delighted Bill. “’Ow goes it?”
“Where am I?” inquired Private Harry Bliss, in a weak voice.
“Brig Merman,” said Bill; “bound for Bystermouth.”
“Well, I’m damned,” said Private Bliss; “it’s a blooming miracle. Open the winder, it’s a bit stuffy down here. Who—who brought me here?”
“You come to see me last night,” said Bob, “an’ fell down, I s’pose; then you punched Bill ’ere in the eye and me in the jor.”
Mr. Bliss, still feeling very sick and faint, turned to Bill, and after critically glancing at the eye turned on him for inspection, transferred his regards to the other man’s jaw.
“I’m a devil when I’m boozed,” he said, in a satisfied voice. “Well, I must get ashore; I shall get cells for this, I expect.”