“I’m very ill—dying,” said Jemmy, with another groan.
“You’d better stay in bed and have your breakfast brought down here, then,” said the skipper kindly.
“I don’t want no breakfast,” said Jem faintly.
“That’s no reason why you shouldn’t have it sent down, you unfeeling little brute,” said the skipper indignantly. “You tell Joe to bring you down a great plate o’ cold meat and pickles, and some coffee; that’s what you want.”
“All right, sir,” said Jemmy. “I hope they won’t let the missus come down here, in case it’s something catching. I wouldn’t like her to be took bad.”
“Eh?” said the skipper, in alarm. “Certainly not. Here, you go up and die on deck. Hurry up with you.”
“I can’t; I’m too weak,” said Jemmy.
“You get up on deck at once; d’ye hear me?” hissed the skipper, in alarm.
“I c-c-c-can’t help it,” sobbed Jemmy, who was enjoying the situation amazingly. “I b’lieve it’s sleeping on the hard floor’s snapped something inside me.”
“If you don’t go I’ll take you,” said the skipper, and he was about to rise to put his threat into execution when a shadow fell across the opening, and a voice, which thrilled him to the core, said softly, “Jemmy!”