The Black Bar Part 11

"Wasn't going to, my lad."

Mark heard those words spoken by familiar voices, but why or about whom he could not tell. All he knew was that he was aboard s.h.i.+p, with the warm air coming in through the port, and the water was splas.h.i.+ng and slapping against the side.

Then there was a good deal of buzzing conversation carried on, and the voices all sounded familiar still, but they grew more distant, and next all was dark and comfortable, and Mark felt as if he were very tired and thoroughly enjoying a good sleep.

Then, unknown to him, time went on, and he opened his eyes again, and lay and listened to some one making a noise--that is to say, the person who made it believed that he was singing, but Mark Vandean did not believe anything of the kind, and lay quite still, and laughed gently as from close to his head there came in a low, harsh, croaking buzz, with the faintest suggestion of a tune--

"And we jolly sailor boys were up, up aloft, And the landlubbers lying down below, below, below, And the landlubbers lying down below."

Then there was a pause, and the scratching of a pen as if some one were writing. The noise began again, and Mark, as he lay in his cot, chuckled; but though he did not know it, his silent laugh was in a feeble way.

At last he spoke. "What's the matter, young 'un?"

There was a quick movement, and the light was shut out by Bob Howlett, who rushed to his side and caught him by the shoulders.

"Matter? There's nothing the matter now, old chap. Hip--hip--hip-- hurray! You are getting better, then?"

"Better? Have I been ill?"

"Ill? Oh, I suppose you can't call it being ill, because it wasn't Humpty Dums, or Winkey w.a.n.ks, or Grim Fever; but I thought you were going to die, old chap, or do some other mean and shabby thing. I say, how do you feel?"

"All right, only I thought you had something the matter with you."

"Me? Why?"

"You were groaning so when I woke up."

"Groaning? Why, I was singing," cried Bob, indignantly.

"Oh, were you? I shouldn't have known if you hadn't told me. But, I say, I wouldn't sing any more if I were you, Bob. It isn't in your way."

"Get out! Sing as well as you can. There, don't lie shamming being sick any more, because you are quite well thankye, or you wouldn't begin chaffing."

"But have I been ill? Why, my voice sounds queer, doesn't it?"

"Queer? It sounds just like a penny whistle, while mine's as solid as a big trombone."

"What?"

"Oh, never mind about that, old chap. We'll soon feed you up, old Whitney and I. Make you strong as a horse again. Van, old c.o.c.kalorum, I am glad."

And to show his delight, Bob Howlett executed a kind of triumphal dance, ending with a stamp.

"Don't be an idiot, Bob," said Mark, feebly. "Come close here. I want to know what's been the matter. Has there been a fight, and was I wounded?"

"No!" cried Bob. "Why, what an old stuffy head you are. Don't you understand? Can't you recollect?"

"Recollect what?"

"The going off in the first cutter with poor old Russell to pick up that n.i.g.g.e.r?"

"No," said Mark, dreamily. "I don't recollect any--Yes I do, and we found him, and--I say, Bob, what's wrong with my head? I can't think properly."

"Won't draw. Chimney wants sweeping, old chap. But don't you fidget about that," cried Bob, laying a hand upon his companion's forehead, and then feeling his pulse with much professional correctness. "Temperature normal, sir; pulse down to one. We must exhibit tonics, sir; sulph quin pulv rhei; liquor diachylon. Great improvement, my dear sir. Allow me your tongue."

"Don't be a fool, Bob. Tell me, there's a good chap."

"Ah! I remember now," cried Mark, excitedly. "Tom Fillot let the poor fellow slide overboard, and Mr Russell and the men were all down with the heat, and then--Yes, I recollect now; I went to sleep."

"Yes, you did, old chap," said Bob Howlett, holding his messmate's thin hand in his; "and it seemed such a sound sleep when we picked you up that I began to think you wouldn't wake again."

"But do pray tell me," cried Mark, excitedly. "How was it? We were all dying of hunger and thirst in the boat. Stop, how is Mr Russell?"

"Bad. Can't rustle a bit; but he's coming round."

"And Dance, and Tom Fillot, and the others?"

"Tom Fillot looks cranky, but there isn't much the matter with him.

c.o.xswain Dance couldn't jig to save his life. T'others are blue mouldy, and old Whitney talks about 'em as if he was using bricks and mortar.

He says he shall build 'em up."

"But do pray tell me all about it, Bob," said Mark, querulously.

"I say, don't cry about it, or I won't tell you anything."

"I won't say a word, only I am so impatient to know."

"Want to know it all--from the very beginning?"

"Of course. Don't tease me, Bob, now I'm so _weak_."

"Oh, won't I. Got you down flat, old chap. Can't bounce and bully me now. Give me much of your nonsense, I'll punch your old head. Now, then, where'll you have it?"

Bob struck an att.i.tude, and began to square at his messmate playfully; but he sat down again directly.

"Well, I'll let you off this time, and take pity on you as you're such a cripple. Ahem! All in to begin?"

Mark looked at him piteously, and Bob laid his hand upon his arm.

"All right, old chap," he said, huskily; "I won't tease you. I feel so jolly to see you open your eyes again, that it made me play the fool."

Bob choked a little, and said it was because he felt dry. A possible thing, but his eyes looked wet. Then he went on hastily--"Well, it was like this, old chap; as soon as we'd dropped you first cutters, we cracked on after the schooner again as hard as we could go, with Maitland and old Staples, one on each side of the deck, barking and snapping at the lads because we couldn't get more out of the old girl.

We went pretty fast, though; and knowing that the Yank would try it on again, old Ramsey had to pipe himself and the crew ready for the second cutter. Sure enough, there was the same game tried again, and the second cutter was dropped, with old Ram in command, and we left him, too, to pick up the black thrown overboard, while we raced on again, getting close enough to send shot after shot through the schooner's rigging; but she seemed to be a Flying Dutchman sort of a craft, for we never once hit a spar."

"But you've taken her, Bob?"

"You just lie still and hold your tongue, will you? If you can tell the story better than I can, you don't want me to speak."

"I'll be patient and not say a word," said Mark, humbly.