In fact, when he closed them, strange as it may sound, he felt as if he could see better, for there were a number of little spots of light sailing up and down and round and round, like the tiny sparks seen in tinder before the fire which has consumed is quite extinct.
He lay still, not thinking but trying to think, for his mind was in the condition described by the little girl who, suffering from a cold, said, "Please, ma, one side of my nose won't go." Archy Raystoke's mind would not go, and for a long time he lay motionless.
His memory began to work again in his back, for he gradually became conscious of feeling something there, and after suffering the inconvenience for a long time, he thrust his hand under his spine and drew out a piece of iron, sharp-edged and round like a hoop.
He felt better after that, and fell to wondering why he had brought his little hoop to bed with him, and also how it was that his little hoop, which he used to trundle, had become iron instead of wood.
The exertion of moving the hoop made him wince, for his back was sore and his arms felt strained as if he had been beaten.
His mind began "to go" a little more, and he had to turn back mentally; but he could not do that, so he made an effort to go forward, and wondered how soon it would be morning, and the window curtains at the foot of the bed would show streaks of sunshine between.
Time passed on and he still lay perfectly quiet, for he did not feel the slightest inclination to move after his late efforts, which had produced a sensation of the interior of his skull beginning to bubble up with fire or hot lead rolling about.

But as that pain declined he felt cold, and after a great deal of hesitation he suddenly stretched out his hands to pull up the clothes.
There were none.
His natural inference had been, as he was lying there upon his back, that he must be in bed; but now he found that, though there were no bed-clothes, he was wearing his own, only upon feeling about with no little pain they did not seem like his clothes.
That was as far as he could get then, but some time after there came a gleam of light in his understanding, and he recalled the mists that hung about the Channel.
Of course he was in one of those thick mists, and he had gone to sleep on--on--what had he gone to sleep on?
The light died out, and it was a long time before, like a flash, came the answer.
The deck of the cutter! He made a movement to start up in horror, for he knew that he must have gone to steep during his watch, and his pain and stiffness were like a punishment for doing so disgraceful a thing.
"What will Mr Brough say if he knows ?" he thought, and then he groaned, for the pain caused by the movement was unbearable.
At last his mind began to clear, and he set himself to wonder with more force.

This was not the deck, for he could feel that he was lying on what was like an old sail, and where his hand lay was not wood, but cold hard stone, with a big crack full of small scraps.
The lad shook his head and then uttered a low moan, for the pain was terrible.
It died off though as he lay, still trying hard to think, failing-- trying in a half dreamy way, and finally thrilling all over, for he remembered everything now--the smugglers--the scene in the darkness of the room where he was imprisoned--the coming of that boy who jeered at him till they engaged in a fierce struggle, with the result all plainly pictured, till he was stunned or had swooned away.
These thoughts were almost enough to stun him again, and he lay there with a hot sensation of rage against the treacherous young scoundrel who had lured him on to that struggle, and held him so thoroughly fixed against the bars till he was secured and bound.

Yes, and his eyes were bandaged.

He could recall it now.
"Oh, only wait till I get my chance!" he muttered, and he involuntarily clenched his fists.
He lay perfectly quiet again though, for he found that any exertion brought on mental confusion as well as pain, and he wanted to think about his position.
It came by degrees more and more, and as he was able to think with greater clearness, he found an explanation of the fancy he had felt, that he must be ill and sea-sick again, and that somebody had been giving him brandy.
Part was fevered imagination, part was reality, for there could be no doubt about that faint odour of spirits.