The wounded trader looked up eagerly, his pale face being full of subdued energy.
Harry had a slight knowledge of surgery. He had been in an ambulance corps and knew how to give first aid to the wounded, which was something.
Going below he procured a sheet from a berth and tore it into bandages.
The wound was bound up, but the Arab was too far gone to recover.
A slight stimulant revived him for a time.
It was only a brief, fleeting space, however.
His last hour had come.
And he knew it.
“The pirates,” he murmured, “have a white man on board.”
“It must be Young Jack,” said Harry.