“Which way did the lubbers sheer off? Shall we clap on sail, and give chase?”
“It is of no use. I know one of them well. They shall not escape me.”
“Why, I know that voice. Yes—no—damn me—it must be Ralph Rattlin—it bean’t, sure—and here on his beam ends, a shot in his hull, and one of his spars shattered. I’d sooner have had my grog watered all my life than this should have fallen out.”
“You have not had your grog watered this evening, Pigtop,” said I, rising, assisted by himself and his comrades. “I don’t feel much hurt, after all.”
“True, true, shipmate. But we must clap a stopper over all. Small-shot in the chest are bad messmates. We must make a tourniquet of my skysail here.”
So, without heeding my cries of pain, he passed his handkerchief round my breast; and by the means of twisting his walking-stick in the knot, he hove it so tight, that he not only stopped all effusion of blood, but almost all my efforts at breathing. My left hand still held the discharged pistol, which I gave into the custody of Pigtop. Upon further examination, I found that there was no fracture of the bone of my arm; and that, all things considered, I could walk tolerably well. However, I still felt a violent pain in my chest, attended with difficulty of breathing, at the least accelerated pace.