“Doctor’s got him, and been mending him up. He has gone to sleep now.”
“Was he very bad?”
“Stick a stocking-needle through your arm, and then square it, cube it, add decimal nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, and then see how you feel.”
“Poor old boy!” I said; “I am sorry.”
“Well, so am I,” said Barkins sourly; “but I don’t keep on howling.”
“Did they take the blackguard prisoner?”
“Well, they did, and hauled him aboard, but he was no good, and they pitched him overboard again.”
“Why?” I said wonderingly.
“Why! because he was dead. Bob Saunders, that red-haired chap, was in the stern-sheets helping to catch the beggars with hitches, and as soon as he saw the big yellow-faced wretch stick his knife into poor old Blacksmith, he let drive at the brute with the boat-hook, twisted it in his frock, and held him under water. He didn’t mean to, but he was savage at what he had seen, for the lads like Smithy, and he held the beggar under water too long.”
I shuddered, and thought of the man being bayoneted from our boat, and Mr Grey’s narrow escape.