He closed his eyes, and a feeling of weak misery choked his utterance. He would have given anything for the power to question his companion, and learn for certain who were living of the party; for the idea had in his weakness become now a certainty, that though he had seemed to hear that Mr Russell was recovering, he it was who had died. At last the power to think returned, and he turned his wan, pain-drawn face to Bob. "Tell me," he whispered. "No, sir, nothing," cried the doctor. "Here, I have brought you the little draught myself, so as to see that it is taken properly. I don't know why I should have so much trouble over a pack of lads who are more worry than they are worth. Why, bless my heart, Mr Vandean, you are going backward. Here, Mr Howlett, go to my quarters and send my fellow here." CHAPTER TEN. IN THE DOCTOR'S CLUTCHES. It was the next day, and, in spite of wind-sails and open ports, hotter than ever. The _Nautilus_ was back off the Palm River, lying at anchor, waiting as usual for news which might end in a more successful expedition than the last, for the nefarious traffic was still being carried on just under the nose of Her Majesty's little cruiser, in spite of every effort to catch the cunning skippers who set the officers at defiance. Mark opened his eyes after a long, refreshing sleep, for Bob Howlett had contrived to keep the cabin comparatively cool; and as soon as the lads' eyes met, the sick middy's thoughts went back to the last conversation they had held. "Bob," he whispered. That young gentleman held up his hand. "Only a word or two and I'll be quiet." "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.