“We must keep him warm,” said the mate. “I don’t see as we can do any more.”
“We’ll get under way again,” said the other; and pausing to heap some more clothes over the sailor he went on deck, followed by the mate; and in a short time the Swallow was once more moving through the water. Then the skipper, leaving the mate at the helm, went below.
Half an hour passed.
“Go and see what you can make of him,” said the skipper as he re-appeared and took the helm. “He keeps coming round a bit, and then just drifts back. Seems like as if he can’t hook on to life. Don’t seem to take no interest in it.”
The mate obeyed in silence; and for the remainder of the day the two men relieved each other at the bedside of the sailor. Towards evening, as they were entering the river which runs up to Littleport, he made decided progress under the skipper’s ministrations; and the latter thrust his huge head up the hatchway and grinned in excusable triumph at the mate as he imparted the news. Then he suddenly remembered himself, and the smile faded. The light, too, faded from the mate’s face.
“’Bout that mutiny and attempted murder,” said the skipper, and paused as though waiting for the mate to contradict or qualify the terms; but he made no reply.
“I give you in charge as soon as we get to port,” continued the other. “Soon as the ship’s berthed, you go below.”
“Ay, ay,” said the mate, but without looking at him.
“Nice thing it’ll be for your wife,” said the skipper sternly. “You’ll get no mercy from me.”
“I don’t expect none,” said the mate huskily, “What I’ve done I’ll stand to.”