The Black Bar Part 14

"Yes, you'd better. If you say much I'll fetch old Whitney to give you an awful dose."

"Tell me this: is the captain much cut up, and Mr Staples, too?"

"Of course they are, both of them, horribly."

Mark sighed, and was silent for some moments.

"Tell me about Tom Fillot," he said at last. "How is he?"

"Pretty well all right again."

There was another pause, which lasted some minutes, before the sick lad spoke again.

"Couldn't the doctor save them?"

"No; only the two," replied Bob, coolly. "You see, the starving and heat were too much for them. Whitney did everything he could for them, but, as he said, they died off like flies."

Mark looked at him in horror.

"How can you be so brutally cynical?" he said, with a shudder.

"Who's brutally cynical?" cried Bob, indignantly, and forgetting all the doctor's orders. "I'm very sorry, of course. We did all we could to save the poor fellows, but they died, and there's an end of them. I don't feel bound to be miserable because the doctor couldn't save them."

Mark's brow contracted a little. He felt that he did not like Bob Howlett half so well as of old, but that perhaps he had been too hard in calling him brutally cynical, and he spoke more gently now.

"Who were the two that recovered?"

"Eh? I dunno."

Mark stared.

"Well, how should I know what their names are? Hashy and Quashy, or something of the kind. They're out and outers to eat, and don't seem a bit the worse. I called 'em Soup and Taters yesterday after seeing 'em at their feeding."

"What are you talking about?"

"I was answering your questions about the black fellows."

"I didn't ask you about the blacks."

"Yes, you did."

"I didn't, stupid," said Mark, angrily.

"Huh! Ha, ha!" cried Bob. "He's getting better. Go it, old chap!

Call me something else."

"I asked you about the boat's crew."

"No, you didn't. What about 'em?"

"I asked you about their being saved, and you said all were dead but two."

"Oh, I say, what a cracker! You are getting better, and no mistake.

You asked me about how many of the black fellows the doctor saved, and I told you those two first fellows that we got on board, and the others died."

"Then Mr Russell and the lads?"

"Oh, they're all right," cried Bob; "leastways, not all right, but ever so much better. You've been by a long way the worst."

"Then Mr Russell isn't dead?" gasped Mark.

"Here, steady, my lad. What's the matter?"

"Oh, tell me--tell me!" cried Mark, excitedly.

"Why, of course he isn't. Now, don't go on like that. Here, I'll run for old Whitney."

"No, no," whispered Mark, clinging to his messmate's arm. "I'm better now. I thought you told me that he was dead. It has worried me dreadfully."

"Oh, but you shouldn't get all sorts of fancies in your head now it's a bit weak. I don't know about saying _now_ it's a bit weak," said Bob, with a comical smile, "because you always were a soft-headed sort of fellow. That's better. Now you've cooled down."

"Yes," said Mark, with a smile, "and I shall soon be better now."

"That's your style. All my doing. I say, Van, old chap, I'll take to doctoring you now; so kick old Whitney over, and leave it to me.

Russell says he shall come and see you soon--"

"I wish he would," cried Mark.

"If you don't soon come and see him."

"I only wish I could," said Mark, and he made an effort to rise, but sank back with a piteous look of misery in his face, which made Bob seize his hand.

"Here, I say," he cried cheerily. "Oh! Don't look like that. You're only a bit weak, messmate. Avast there! take a good grip o' the health tack; haul in your slack, and ahoy! you'll be full sail again in a week.

I say, what do you think of that? I'm getting on with my nautical lingo, ain't I?"

Mark smiled feebly--just a wan, sickly smile, like a bit of sunshine on a wintry day.

"Avast there! none of your grinning," cried Bob. "Better than you could do it, old chap. That's your sort. Cheer up. I must be off now. I'll come back and talk to you as soon as I can, and if you behave yourself I'll sing you a song."

There was a genuine smile on Mark Vandean's face now, as he heard these words delivered with utmost seriousness.

"No, no, don't, Bob," he said, feebly. "I am getting better, really, now. Don't do that. It would be more than I could stand."

Bob Howlett uttered a peculiar sound, half-angry cry, half growl, caught up his cap, and marched out, as if in high dudgeon, while Mark lay back, staring at the open port-hole, through which came the warm glowing light of the tropic sunshine.

"Poor old Bob!" he muttered; "he thinks he can sing, and of all the dreadful noises ever made.--Ha, ha, ha!"

He laughed merrily at the recollection of some of his messmate's vocal efforts, and his face was lit up as if with inward sunshine, till he heard a voice and looked round in wonder, to see that Captain Maitland, Mr Staples, and the doctor were at the doorway watching him.