For the cutter was alone on the sun-bright water; and as a great bird slowly floated over them, it looked down with cruel gaze, as if waiting and watching and wondering which would be the first of the insensible men on board to sink into a deeper sleep--one from which there would be no return. That was just as Mark was dreaming the brightest of his old Devon home, and the sun was turning the sea into paler gold, and then into silvery dazzling white. CHAPTER NINE. BOB HOWLETT AS NURSE. "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. 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 Wanks, 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?"