“And where are we now?”
“At sea.”
“I’m aware of that, but in what sea—the Channel, the North Sea, or the Atlantic?”
“You’ll know soon enough. Just breathe the ozone, and make yourself comfortable. That’s all you have to do,” he responded, with his bearded chin thrust forward, in an air of unconcern.
“Well, you haven’t provided many creature comforts for me,” I remarked, with a glance round the stuffy little place.
“No, this isn’t exactly a Cunarder,” he admitted. “But I’ll tell the men to bring you some grub, at any rate. Like some duff?”
“You’re very kind; but I’d rather take a walk on deck in order to get an appetite.”
“No; the sun’s a bit too strong,” he answered waggishly. “You might get sunstroke, you know.”
“I shall be asphyxiated if I remain here.”
“Well, that’s a comfortable death, I believe. More than one chap has died for want o’ breath in the hold of this ship when we’ve been trimmin’ coal.”