saloon to ask how poor
Jackson was, uttering my thoughts unconsciously aloud as I reflected,
and now that I considered their responsibility, thought how much poor
old Mr Stokes, with his broken arm, and Stoddart and the others must
have on their minds! "Hullo, who is that?"

It was Weston, the steward, who spoke.

"I wish you'd come and look at Jackson, sir," he said. "The poor chap
wore all right when Mr O'Neil comed down jist now, and a sleepin' still
as when you seed him awhile ago. But all of a suddink he starts up as
he hears you a comin' down the companion-way, sir, and is jabbering away
like anythink!"

"Oh, but," I exclaimed, "why did you leave him?"

"I wor afeard he'd jump overboard, or try to do somethink awful!"

"Nonsense! the very thing you are there for to prevent," said I, going
into the cabin, where I saw the poor fellow trying to get out of the
cot. Turning angrily to Weston I repeated again, "You shouldn't have
left him for one moment in this state!"

"But, sir, I wanted to hail Mr O'Neil or somebody; I thought I oughter
'ave summun by to 'elp me, in case he becomed desperate-like, and I
couldn't make no one hear on deck, and that's why I comed when I knowed
you was a-passing along, sir."

This was unanswerable logic, though Weston always had an answer for
anything and everything.

Poor Jackson, though, did not look as if he would be "desperate" again
in any shape or form.

That he was delirious I could see at a glance, for his eyes, great wild
eyes, were wide open, staring at vacancy, fixed on the bulkhead that
divided the cabin from the captain's, which was just beyond; and he was
very much excited, sitting up in the cot and, gesticulating violently
with both his hands, and waving his arms about as he repeated some
unintelligible gibberish over and over again, that I could not make out.

Presently he looked at me very straight as if he recognised me, and
afterwards spoke a little more coherently.

"Ah, yes, sir, I recollect now," he said at last. "You're Mr Haldane,
I know; but--where's the little girl and the--the--dog?"

"Why, Jackson, old man," I said, speaking soothingly to him, "what's the
matter with you? There's no girl or dog, you know, here. Don't you
know where you are, my poor fellow?"

He got quite savage at this. There's no reason in delirium!

"Of course I know where I am," he screamed out, making a grab at Weston,
as he writhed in torture from the internal an