“I thought so,” he remarked. “You feel rather queer, my boy, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir, very ill,” said Paul; “I don’t know what is the matter with me.”
“But I do,” answered the doctor. “A fever is coming on, and the sooner you are out of this the better. I’ll speak to the captain about you.”
The fever did come on. Paul was sent to the hospital on shore, where he was tenderly nursed by Devereux, aided by O’Grady; the Cerberus, meantime, having sailed on a cruise under the command of Mr Order. As no ship of war was going home, Captain Walford took his passage in a sugar-laden merchantman, having Devereux and O’Grady with him, and he got Paul also invalided home. Paul’s chief source of delight was the thought that he should present himself to his mother and sisters as a real veritable midshipman, in the uniform he so often in his dreams had worn, and of the happiness he should afford them. Their ship was not a very fast one, though she could carry a vast number of hogsheads of sugar, and was remarkably comfortable. The captain was more like a kind father and a good-natured tutor than most skippers, and they all had a very pleasant time of it. Paul had had no time for study while he was a ship-boy, and so the captain advised him to apply himself to navigation and to general reading; and he did so with so much good will, that, during the voyage, he made considerable progress. They were nearing the mouth of the Channel.
“In another week we shall be at home,” said Paul.
“Yes, it will be jolly,” answered Devereux. “You must come and see me, you know, at the Hall, and I’ll introduce you to my family, and they’ll make you amends somehow or other, if they can; they must, I am determined.”
“Thank you heartily, Devereux,” answered Paul; “but the short time I am likely to be at home I must spend with my mother, and though I know your kind wishes, people generally will not look with much respect on a person who was till lately a mere ship-boy.”
“No fear of that, Gerrard; but we’ll see, we’ll see,” answered Devereux.
“A sail on the weather bow,” shouted the look-out from aloft, “standing across our course.”
The West Indiaman, the Guava was her name, went floundering on as before; the master, however, who had gone aloft, kept his glass on the stranger. After some time he came down, his countenance rather paler than usual.