“Morning, sir. You’re up early, sir. Won’t want calling.”
“No, I shall not want calling this morning, Ned. How are you?”
“About all right, sir, only I don’t seem to have no arm. Oh, Mr Jack— Sir John!” cried the man wildly as his master entered the cabin, and he turned his head with a shiver from his injured limb, “you ain’t let him do that, have you, while I’ve been asleep?”
“Do what, Ned?” said Jack in a soothing voice.
“Take a fellow’s arm off, sir.”
“No, no, Ned, my lad,” said the doctor, laying his hand upon his patient’s forehead. “It feels numb and dead from the wound.”
“Then—then it isn’t off?” cried the poor fellow with a gasp. “Oh, thank goodness! It give me quite a turn, sir, and I was afraid to look.”
“You’re better, Ned, and coming round fast,” said the doctor, as a warm glow of light began to illumine the cabin, driving away the shadows of that terrible night.
“Oh yes, sir, I’m all right,” said the wounded man, speaking more strongly now. Then in quite an apologetic tone, “Not quite all right, Sir John; you see, there’s my arm. Sorry to have give so much trouble, Sir John; but you see, it wasn’t quite my fault.”
“Ah, lie still, you rascal!” said the doctor, as the man made an attempt to rise.