Three days later Sandgrub anchored for the night within ten miles of the site of Blakeborough’s factory, which, although the ship’s company did not know of it, was now a heap of smoking ruins.
Greatly against his inclinations, Lieutenant-commander Wilverley had decided against covering the last lap during the hours of darkness. It was reputed to be a particularly tricky stretch of the river, and it would be unlucky for the gunboat if she ran hard aground within range of the bandit Fu-so-li’s guns.
Raxworthy was still on the sick list, and reclining on a mattress on the quarter-deck. The doctor had promised to return him to duty on the morrow, when serious work might be expected.
His servant brought him his dinner.
“Soup, sir? Mock Turtle?”
The midshipman looked at the greasy liquid and shook his head.
“Take it away, Saunderson,” he exclaimed.
“You’re losing your appetite, sir,” observed the man. “Ti-so’s put some good stuff into it, so he says.”
“Away with it,” decided Raxworthy firmly.
He turned down the fish, but managed to eat a little quail. Somehow he felt off colour.