“No, sir; he’s sitting by his berth. He tied up the wound himself.”
Without another word the doctor started off, and we followed to where Barkins sat by the table with his back leaning against the side of his berth, and as soon as he caught sight of us he darted a reproachful look at me.
“Oh, I say, Gnat,” he whispered, “this is too bad.” For the doctor had raised the leg, and, after taking off the handkerchief, roughly tied round just above the knee, made no scruple about slitting up the lad’s trousers with an ugly-looking knife, having a hooky kind of blade.
“Bad?” said Mr Reardon anxiously.
“Oh dear, no,” replied the doctor. “Nice clean cut. Sponge and water, youngster. Ha, yes,” he continued, as he applied the cool, soft sponge to the bleeding wound, “avoided all the vessels nicely.”
“Gnat, old chap,” whispered Barkins, as I half supported him, “pinch me, there’s a good fellow.”
“What for?” I whispered back.
“Feel sicky and queer. Don’t let me faint before him.”
“Here, hallo! Barkins, don’t turn like a great girl over a scratch—lower his head down, boy. That’s the way. He’ll soon come round. Ever see a wound dressed before?”