"Who struck me?" he faintly asked.
"Your shot-gun fell on your head, but I threw you down, Jerrold. I'm sorry I touched you, but you're lucky it was no worse. This thing is going to raise a big bump here. Shall I send the doctor?"
"No. I'll come round presently. We'll see about this thing afterwards."
"Is there any friend you want to see? Shall I send word to anybody?" asked Chester.
"No. Don't let anybody come. Tell my striker to bring my breakfast; but I want nothing to-night but to be let alone."
"At least you will let me help you undress and get to bed?" said Chester.
"No. I wish you'd go,—both of you. I want quiet,—peace,—and there's none of it with either of you."
And so they left him. Later Captain Chester had gone to the quarters, and, after much parleying from without, had gained admission. Jerrold's head was bound in a bandage wet with arnica and water. He had been solacing himself with a pipe and a whiskey toddy, and was in a not unnaturally ugly mood.
"You may consider yourself excused from duty until your face is well again, by which time this matter will be decided. I admonish you to remain here and not leave the post until it is."
"You can prefer charges and see what you'll make of it," was the vehement reply. "Devil a bit will I help you out of the thing, after this night's work."