rried 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?"

"Oh, never mind about that, old chap. We'll soon feed you up, old
Whitney and I. Make you strong as a horse again. Van, old cockalorum,
I am glad."

And to show his delight, Bob Howlett executed a kind of triumphal dance,
ending with a stamp.

"Don't be an idiot, Bob," said Mark, feebly. "Come