"I never thought it possible for men to live through such a storm of shell," said Hal. "At any other time I should have been in a blue funk, but there was so much to do that I had not time to think."
"That's it," agreed Gerald. "When we ran to the gun, the crew, or part of it, had gone farther aft to heave the line, so that our help was badly wanted. Then, what with handing shell, and watching to see what luck we had in hitting the Dons, I hadn't time for anything else. But it was warm! I say, Hal, old boy, fetch me a glass of water. I feel rather done."
To Hal's astonishment, Gerald suddenly sat down upon a twisted rope fender, and turned deathly pale.
"What's the matter? What has happened?" demanded Hal anxiously. "Are you hit, or are you simply shaken by the excitement?"
"I'm hit—in here." Gerald bit his lips to suppress a groan, and pointed to his side. Then, to his friend's consternation, he fainted dead away.
"What is this? The youngster gone off! Been upset by the fighting and noise?" asked Lieutenant Billing, hurrying up.
"No, I fear he's wounded," Hal exclaimed. "Somewhere in the side, I fancy."
They ran to Gerald's help, and while Hal held his head on his arm, the lieutenant tore his coat open.
"A bit of shell struck him," he said quietly. "No wonder he feels queer. Say, one of you men, drop below and bring up a basin of warm water and some dressings. Another of you hop along to the steward and get some spirits."
He seemed to know exactly what to do, and, as soon as the things were brought, poured some brandy into a tumbler, and, adding a little water, emptied the contents in small quantities at a time down Gerald's throat. Then he ripped the shirt open, and exposed an ugly gash over the ribs.