He bent down over Oliver, and began to remove the bandage which Smith had passed round the upper part of the young man’s left arm.
“Thank goodness it isn’t in the body,” said the mate. “I thought it was at first.”
“No, sir,” said Smith. “He was all wet about his chest, and I thought he’d got it somewhere there, but it’s a nice, neat hole right through his arm, and here’s the bullet which tumbled out of the sleeve of his jacket.”
He handed the little piece of lead to the mate, who took it quickly, held it to the lamp and then drawing his breath sharply between his teeth, he slipped the bullet into his pocket before slitting up Oliver’s sleeve, and examining a couple of ruddy orifices in the upper part of his arm.
“Hurt you much, sir?” he said, cheerfully.
“Hurt?” cried Oliver, angrily. “Why, it throbs and stings horribly.”
“So I s’pose. But you mustn’t think that this is poisoned. No fear of that.”
“I did not think so,” said Oliver, shortly. “I wish I knew who it was that fired at me.”
“Well,” said the mate, drily, as he bathed the two wounds where the bullet had entered and passed out right through the thickest part of the arm, carefully using fresh water and sponge, “I don’t think that would help the places to heal.”
“No—ah! you hurt! Mr Rimmer, what are you doing?”