All he did was to advance to the break of the poop, and call for the
watch. As the sleepy men came trooping aft, he shouted to them fiercely:

"Look at the foot of the port poop-ladder, some of you! See the mate
lying there?"

Their startled exclamations told him immediately that they did see him.
Somebody even screeched out emotionally: "He's dead!"

Mr. Bunter was laid in his bunk and when the lamp in his room was lit
he looked indeed as if he were dead, but it was obvious also that he was
breathing yet. The steward had been roused out, the second mate called
and sent on deck to look after the ship, and for an hour or so Captain
Johns devoted himself silently to the restoring of consciousness. Mr.
Bunter at last opened his eyes, but he could not speak. He was dazed and
inert. The steward bandaged a nasty scalp-wound while Captain Johns
held an additional light. They had to cut away a lot of Mr. Bunter's
jet-black hair to make a good dressing. This done, and after gazing for
a while at their patient, the two left the cabin.

"A rum go, this, steward," said Captain Johns in the passage.

"Yessir."

"A sober man that's right in his head does not fall down a poop-ladder
like a sack of potatoes. The ship's as steady as a church."

"Yessir. Fit of some kind, I shouldn't wonder."