“Can’t tell yet, my lad. How are you, Ned—much hurt?”
“Oh, it hurts, sir, horrid,” said the man faintly; “but I shouldn’t mind that. It’s feeling so sea-sick and swimming I mind. Let’s go back to the yacht.”
“Yes, of course; but you can’t walk.”
“But I will walk, sir; must walk. ’Tain’t my leg, it’s my arm,” cried the man, who was sick with agony, but full of spirit. “Who’s going to carry a fellow in a place like this?”
“Much hurt, mate?” said Lenny, who now crept to them on all fours.
“What’s the good o’ asking stupid questions, old ’un?” cried Ned petulantly. “Course I’m much hurt. Can’t you see it’s gone right into my arm? Why look at this—gone right through. Going to cut the arrow-head out, sir?”
“No,” replied the doctor sharply. “Kneel, and be a man. I won’t hurt you more than I can help.”
“All right, sir. No use hollering,” cried Ned cheerily.
“Look out there!” cried one of the sailors from below. “They’re going to rush us!”
“Never mind me, sir,” said Ned, letting himself sink back. “You three has to fight. Nasty cowardly beggars—shooting a man behind his back! Let ’em have it, I say.”