Say you think I'm dying,"
responded the infant Machiavelli, "then you'll see somethink if you keep
your eyes open."
He went below again, not without a little nervousness, and, clambering
into Joe's bunk, rolled over on his back and gave a deep groan.
"What's the matter with YOU!" growled the skipper, who was lying in the
other bunk staving off the pangs of hunger with a pipe.
"I'm very ill--dying," said Jemmy, with another groan.
"You'd better stay in bed and have your breakfast brought down here,
then," said the skipper kindly.
"I don't want no breakfast," said Jem faintly.
"That's no reason why you shouldn't have it sent down, you unfeeling
little brute," said the skipper indignantly. "You tell Joe to bring you
down a great plate o' cold meat and pickles, and some coffee; that's
what you want."
"All right, sir," said Jemmy. "I hope they won't let the missus come
down here, in case it's something catching. I wouldn't like her to be
took bad."
"Eh?" said the skipper, in alarm. "Certainly not. Here, you go up and
die on deck. Hurry up with you."
"I can't; I'm too weak," said Jemmy.
"You get up on deck at once; d'ye hear me?" hissed the skipper, in
alarm.
"I c-c-c-can't help it," sobbed Jemmy, who was enjoying the situation
amazingly.
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