"Oh, Mr Whitney, sir, don't say he's dead."
"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 ship, with the
warm air coming in through the port, and the water was splashing 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.