Black Davis's glance fell before the fury of Jack's eyes. His big fist, half-raised, dropped to his side again; he took a step backward, then, muttering something indistinctly between his teeth, he slowly turned on his heel and walked aft.
Jack stared, the anger in his eyes changing to a look of blank surprise.
"Well, I'm blowed!" he muttered.
A half-muffled cheer broke from the port watch and many of the starboard who had jumped from their bunks in anticipation of a royal set-to.
The rover turned and snapped out,
"Fetch a bucket of water, one of you."
A dozen men rushed to obey.
Bending over the senseless urchin, Jack gently wiped the blood and red lead from the little white face; then, with the tenderness of a woman, he picked the boy up in his arms and carried him to his bunk.
There he skilfully doctored the long cut on the boy's forehead, first washing it, and then drawing the edges together with sticking-plaister zigzagged across it, whilst the starboard watch looked on in admiration of his handiwork.
Luckily for the poor little waif, his short life of hardship and want had so toughened him that, with the exception of a bad bruise, his ribs were intact.