“Manners, midshipman!” he said sharply. “Stop, sir. Where are you going?”
“Doctor, sir.”
“What, are you hurt, my lad?” he cried anxiously.
“No, sir, but poor Barkins is.”
“Bless my soul, how unfortunate! Mr Smith down too! Where is he?”
I told him, and he hurried with me to the doctor, who was putting on his coat, after finishing the last dressing of the injured men.
“Here, doctor,” cried Mr Reardon sharply, “I’ve another man down—boy, I mean.”
“What, young Smith? I’ve dressed his wound.”
“No, no; Barkins has been touched too.”
“Tut, tut!” cried the doctor, taking up a roll of bandage. “Are they bringing him?”