“Overboard, I said!” roared Briggs. “You’ll go, too, by God, if you give me any lip!”
As men laid hands on the Malays to drag them to the rail, Briggs dropped on his knees beside Crevay. He pulled away the man’s hands from the gaping neck-wound, whence the life was irretrievably spurting.
“Judas priest!” he stammered, for here was his right-hand man as good as dead. “Doctor! Where the devil is Mr. Filhiol?”
“In the cabin, sir,” Prass answered.
“Cabin! Holy Lord! On deck with him!”
“Yes, sir.”
“And tell him to bring his kit!”
Prass had already dived below. The doctor was haled up again, with his bag. A kind of hard exultation blazed in the captain’s face. He seemed not to hear the shouts of war, the spattering fusillade from the canoes. His high-arched chest rose and fell, pantingly. His hands, reddened with the blood of Crevay, dripped horribly. Filhiol, hustled on deck, stared in amazement.
“A job for you, sir!” cried Briggs. “Prove yourself!”