“He means antiseptic, I suppose,” smiled O’Brien, almost too tired and blown to talk.
“Yes, antiseptic, or epidemic, all the same thing,” Bill replied. “Stuff to rub, on a sore spot, and she gets well. If you don’t, piff! you get blood poison and swell up, and swell up till you die.” He grew silent, seeming to gloat over the picture of swelling up and swelling up. Then “Turrible!” he said.
“Well, I won’t swell up unless we have let Mr. Ridgeway die while we were settling things with Smith. Get over there, you two, and lay him down on the rugs.”
The two young men leaped back and, followed rather stiffly by O’Brien, found Mr. Ridgeway lying with open eyes, while Lawrence laid cloths soaked in cold water on his head. He looked very ill, and O’Brien was frightened when he saw his condition. Lifting him gently, he examined the bruise made by the blow, then went to attend a little to his own hurt.
“About a millionth of a inch more and he would uv croaked him,” Hank assured Bill in an undertone as they brought cushions and tucked them around the injured man.
Bill merely glared.
“I never saw anybody like you in this world!” he said finally.
“All right,” said Hank. “Say it all you please, but I don’t see as anybody has thought of what I am a-goin’ to do next, and it’s what he needs worst of all.”
He vaulted over into the ship they had come in, and disappeared into the tiny cabin. In a few minutes he appeared with a covered basket. This in hand, he went back to Mr. Ridgeway and knelt beside him. Uncovering the basket, he took out a pot of tea, boiling hot, and a couple of slices of toast. Mr. Ridgeway tasted it languidly, then drank with relish as the hot liquid warmed his chilled frame.
“I never tasted anything quite so good,” he said as he finished his second cup. “You had better pass some of that to O’Brien, young man. I never did know before how good tea could be.”