“Yes ’m?” said Jemmy languidly, as the skipper flattened himself in his bunk and drew the clothes over him.
“How do you feel?” inquired Mrs. Harbolt.
“Bad all over,” said Jemmy. “Oh, don’t come down, mum—please don’t.”
“Rubbish!” said Mrs. Harbolt tartly, as she came slowly and carefully down backwards. “What a dark hole this is, Jemmy. No wonder you’re ill. Put your tongue out.”
Jemmy complied.
“I can’t see properly here,” murmured the lady, “but it looks very large. S’pose you go in the other bunk, Jemmy. It’s a good bit higher than this, and you’d get more air and be more comfortable altogether.”
“Joe wouldn’t like it, mum,” said the boy anxiously. The last glimpse he had had of the skipper’s face did not make him yearn to share his bed with him.
“Stuff an’ nonsense!” said Mrs. Harbolt hotly. “Who’s Joe, I’d like to know? Out you come.”
“I can’t move, mum,” said Jemmy firmly.
“Nonsense!” said the lady. “I’ll just put it straight for you first, then in it you go.”