“But I can’t be patient, sir. You don’t know what it means.”
“Does it pain you so much?”
“No, sir; not so werry much. I can bear it well enough, but it makes me feel as if I’d got a skewer through me.”
“Silence there,” said the lieutenant.
“It’s all very fine,” muttered the man; and then, leaning towards Murray, “Say, sir, these here niggers on the coast are cannibals, aren’t they?”
“Yes, some of them, I believe,” whispered back the midshipman.
“Don’t leave me behind, then,” said the man softly, and he uttered a low chuckling laugh. “I don’t want ’em to come upon me and find a fellow skewered and trussed ready for cooking.”
“Can’t you keep that man quiet, Mr Murray?” said the lieutenant angrily, and he came up to where the pair stood together. “It’s like telling the enemy where to throw again, for they are wonderfully quick of hearing.”
“I am trying, sir,” whispered the midshipman, “but I wish you would place your hand here.”
“Place your hand there, Mr Murray!” said the officer, in a voice full of vexation. “I have no time to feel the poor fellow’s wound.”