"I wish that I were dead!" "Don't trouble about that," answered Bickley.

"I expect you soon will be.

Here, drink some whisky, you donkey." Bastin sat up and obeyed, out of the bottle, for it was impossible to pour anything into a glass, with results too dreadful to narrate.
"I call that a dirty trick," he said presently, in a feeble voice, glowering at Bickley.
"I expect I shall have to play you a dirtier before long, for you are a pretty bad case, old fellow." As a matter of fact he had, for once Bastin had begun really we thought that he was going to die.

Somehow we got him into his cabin, which opened off the saloon, and as he could drink nothing more, Bickley managed to inject morphia or some other compound into him, which made him insensible for a long while.
"He must be in a poor way," he said, "for the needle went more than a quarter of an inch into him, and he never cried out or stirred.

Couldn't help it in that rolling." But now I could hear the engines working, and I think that the bow of the vessel was got head on to the seas, for instead of rolling we pitched, or rather the ship stood first upon one end and then upon the other.