"I reckon that's what I've got to find out," said Jake. "Maybe it's no worse than a broken head. What about you?"
"Oh, I'm all right," Saltash declared impatiently. "I say, are you really hurt, man? Curse this dark! Wait while I strike a match!"
"Curse everything!" said Jake whole-heartedly. "I wonder if there's a lamp not smashed."
Saltash struck a match and regarded him by its flare. "Great Scott!" he ejaculated in dismay.
For the illumination had revealed to him that which he had certainly not expected to see; one side of Jake's face streaming with blood.
Jake strove ineffectually to staunch the flow with a handkerchief. "I don't know where the mischief is exactly," he said. "Somewhere above the temple, I fancy. Don't alarm yourself, my lord. I always bleed like a pig. It's my nature to."
A faint grim smile drew his mouth with the words. He looked at Saltash with eyes of steady mastery. "Let me hold that match!" he said. "P'raps you wouldn't mind locating the mischief."
Saltash, genuinely disturbed, complied with this suggestion, and discovered a deep, jagged cut on Jake's forehead.
"I say, this is a bad business!" he said, as the match went out. "Are you feeling bad?"
"Oh, not in the least," said Jake drily. "Sorry to give you so much trouble."