“Ill?” gasped the startled skipper. “Here, take the wheel a minute.”
He handed it over, and grasping his skirts went hastily below. The mate was half lying, half sitting, in his bunk, groaning dismally.
“What’s the matter?” inquired the skipper.
“I’m dying,” said the mate. “I keep being tied up all in knots inside. I can’t hold myself straight.”
The other cleared his throat. “You’d better take off your clothes and lie down a bit,” he said kindly. “Let me help you off with them.”
“No—don’t—trouble,” panted the mate.
“It ain’t no trouble,” said the skipper, in a trembling voice.
“No, I’ll keep ’em on,” said the mate faintly. “I’ve always had an idea I’d like to die in my clothes. It may be foolish, but I can’t help it.”
“You’ll have your wish some day, never fear, you infernal rascal,” shouted the overwrought skipper. “You’re shamming sickness to make me take the ship into port.”
“Why shouldn’t you take her in,” asked the mate, with an air of innocent surprise. “It’s your duty as cap’n. You’d better get above now. The bar is always shifting.”