“One of our people has lost his wits, and if you have the doctor aboard, we wish he could see what he can do for him.”
“Who is he?” asked Willy.
“Mr Holt, sir.”
The doctor had started up on hearing Willy speaking. Roger Bollard repeated what he had before said. “Clap a strait-waistcoat on him, and keep his head cool,” cried the doctor, sitting up. “I’ll see him in the morning; I cannot do him much good now.”
“But he may be overboard before then, sir,” answered Bollard. “It’s a hard job to keep him quiet now, and he is getting worse and worse. He swears that he will swim back to the ship, as he has left all his traps aboard, and abuses us for not going to get them.”
“Lash him to a thwart, then,” said the doctor. “Still, if you will come alongside, I’ll see what I can do for him.”
“Do! What can a wretched saw-bones like you do? I say that I am an officer in His Majesty’s service, and I decline being treated like a common lunatic,” exclaimed the poor young man.
“He has got some sense left, at all events,” observed the doctor. “He never had much in his brains, however.”
The cutter coming alongside, the doctor stepped on board. “Don’t desert us, Dr Davis,” said several of those on board the launch. While Dr Davis was talking to the unfortunate young officer, and trying to calm him, Willy asked the boatswain how those with him had fared.
“It’s a mercy we were not swamped, so we ought not to complain in regard to other matters,” answered Mr Bollard. “We have, however, but a scanty supply of water, and that poor young gentleman and several others have been crying out for more than I could venture to give them. Our provisions, too, are nearly all wet—the flour and biscuit especially.”