“Why, how came you here, Mr Jerry?” inquired Courtenay.
“Oh! Stewart brought me in his boat, with the hopes of getting rid of me; but I shall live to plague him yet.”
“You are not hurt, Seymour, I hope?” said Price to our hero, who now joined the party, and whose clothes were stained with blood.
“No,” replied Seymour, smiling. “It’s not my blood—it’s Stewart’s. I have been binding up his head; he has a very deep cut on the forehead, and a musket-ball in his neck; but I think neither of the wounds is of much consequence.”
“Where is he?”
“In the cutter. I desired them to put the wounded man in her, out of the launch, and to pull on board at once. Was not I right?”
“Yes, most assuredly. I should have thought of it myself.”
“Well, Jerry,” said Seymour, laughing, “how many did you—”
“I did not count them; but if you meet with any chaps with deeper wounds than usual, put them down to me. Do you know, Mr Price, you are more indebted to me than you may imagine for the success of this affair?”
“How, Mr Jerry? I should like to know, that I may prove my gratitude; ‘eleven out of the thirteen’ you paid, I’ve no doubt.”