"Foster seems to carry himself high!" sneered the captain. "Well, take him to the forecastle, some of you, and let him get over it. We'll carry him to New Bedford, providing he pays for his passage."
I was utterly disgusted with Captain Hannock's brutal words, but came to the conclusion that they were due in great part to the liquor he had drunk. I helped Dibble carry the rescued man to the forecastle, and here the old sailor and myself did all in our power to bring him to his senses.
It was quite a job; but finally it was accomplished, and the man sat up.
"Where am I?" he asked, in a dazed manner.
"Safe on board the Spitfire," I replied.
"And the Dora?"
"The Dora?" asked Dibble.
"Yes; my boat."
"Gone to the bottom of the Sound," said the old sailor. "I saw her founder just as you sprang for the rope."
"You did? Well, let her go. She wasn't worth much. I'm glad I'm safe. Phew! but wasn't it an awful storm?"
"Yes, indeed," said I.
The man wanted to know how we had come to see him, and all particulars, and we told him.
