“Loss of blood, my lad. Ah, Jackum!”
For the black had crept close up to the berth and squatted down, gazing anxiously in the sufferer’s face.
“Doc-tor mumkull?” he said.
“Killed? Oh, no, my man. I hope not for a long time yet.”
“Mumkull—no,” said Jackum. “Brokum?”
“Yes, broken if you like,” and he pointed to the slit-up leg of his trousers and a large bloodstained bandage, tightly bound round.
“Who ’tick ’pear froo doctor leggum?” cried the black, springing up, with his eyes flashing and the look of war in his set teeth; and it was as if he wanted the name of the member of his pack, as he drew his club from behind, to shake it menacingly.
“No, no. Shot-gun,” said the doctor.
“Ho! Big Dan?” whispered the black, and he pointed downward.
“Yes,” said the doctor, and for a few moments his voice grew a little stronger. “Carey, lad, the cowardly ruffian must have been mad drunk this morning, for he came to me furious and foaming and accused me of encouraging you to set the blacks against him. I denied it, of course, and he grew more furious, using bullying and insulting language, till in my irritation I struck him, and he went away, while I began to repent, feeling how awkward our position was. But a few minutes later I had come to the conclusion that the time had arrived when we must strike for freedom, and I was looking longingly across the lagoon at where I could see you practising throwing the boomerang, and wishing you back. Then I turned to go forward and speak to Bostock, who was busy in the galley, when I saw that ruffian standing just outside the cabin entry, taking aim at me with a gun.