"Little ass!" said Saltash, barely preventing himself from tumbling over
him headlong.
He lifted the light, trembling figure and put it down again upon the
couch. Then he poured out a dose of brandy and water and, holding the
boy's head on his arm while the yacht lifted and tossed, compelled him to
drink it.
"Now you lie quiet!" he commanded. "Don't stir an eyelid till I give you
leave!"
The porthole was shut, and the atmosphere close and stuffy. Toby put
forth an appealing hand and clung to his protector's sleeve.
"Mayn't I come on deck, sir?" he murmured anxiously. "Please, sir!"
"No," said Saltash.
Toby said no more, but his fingers fastened like a bird's claw on the
man's arm, and he shivered.
"You're frightened!" said Saltash.
"No, sir! No, sir!" he protested.
"Yes, you are. You needn't bother to lie to me. I always know." Saltash's
voice held an odd note of comradeship. "Beastly sensation, isn't it? Have
some more brandy!"
Then, as Toby refused, he sat down abruptly on the edge of the couch and
thrust an arm out to him. Toby crept to him then like a nervous dog and
trembled against his side.
"Little ass!" said Saltash again. "Been lying here sweating with terror,
have you? There's nothing whatever to sweat about.
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