In another moment or two the sailor was on his knees dragging off the piece of tarpaulin which had been fastened down over the top, probably when the storm began, and directly after the hatch was lifted off, and the lantern held down to throw its light upon a ghastly face, which was raised to us as a couple of hands grasped the combings around the opening. I was so astounded that I could not speak, only listen, as Dumlow shouted-- "I say, what cheer you, my lad?" And Mr Brymer-- "Walters! Why, my lad, what are you doing there?" "Help!" groaned my old messmate with a piteous look up at us; "half-smothered--water--help!" "Well, mutineer or middy," said Mr Brymer, "there's nothing to fear from you. Take one arm, Dumlow," and seizing the other himself, they hoisted Walters quickly out of the little compartment and set him on his feet; but his legs gave way, and he dropped on the deck and lay upon his back. At that moment sounds came up from the hatch, which suggested the possibility of the mutineers breaking through the heavy bulk-head and making their way on deck that way, so before aught else was done, the hatch was securely fastened down again. While that was in progress, but feeling wroth all the time, I bent down over the poor, miserable-looking wretch, whose eyes were following every movement I made, and recalling the shot I had heard fired, I at once came to the conclusion that he was hurt. "Here," I said roughly, "where are you wounded, so that I can tell Mr Frewen?" "I'm--I'm--" "Well, where?" I said, still very roughly, for the sight of the treacherous young wretch made a hot feeling of rage against him rise in my throat. "Not--not wounded," he said feebly. "Then what's the matter with you?" I cried contemptuously; "sea-sick?" "No--no, that--that wretch, Jarette." "What?" cried Mr Brymer, with a mocking laugh. "What? `Wretch Jarette!' Do you mean your captain, my worthy young lieutenant?" Walters' eyes gave a roll and then closed as he lay there; but they opened again directly, for Mr Brymer gave him an angry thrust--a thrust, not a kick--with his foot. "Here, get up, cur! You're our prisoner now. What do you say?" Walters' lips were moving as Dumlow held the light over him and bent down. "Says as you're to stow him in prison, sir, and not let the skipper see him." "Bah! Has it come to this? Speak to him, Dale. What does he say now?" "Water; he is asking for water," I said, as I saw how piteously weak the lad was. "Suffering from exhaustion and want of air." "Then he must have a rest," cried Mr Brymer. "Now, sir, can you get up and walk?" "No," said Mr Frewen, decisively. "Lift him up, Dumlow," said Mr Brymer, "and bring him aft to one of the cabins. Will you see to him, Mr Frewen?" The doctor nodded, and I felt as if I wanted to go; but my duty was there, and I had to stay. CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.