“Hush! Silence, man!” cried the doctor. “Mind! you’re spilling the water.”
“So I am,” said the old sailor, gruffly, and he began to pour out a glassful from the tin he held in one hand, raising the other so as to make the clear, cool liquid sparkle in bubbles as if he meant to give it a head.
“Ha!” sighed Carey, smiling. “Quick! I am so thirsty.”
He was about to try and rise, but the doctor checked him.
“Don’t do that,” he said. “I’ll raise you up, pillow and all, and Bostock shall hold it to your lips. No, stop.—Is the vessel much broken up, my man?”
“Not a bit, sir, but I expect she’s got holes in her bottom.”
“I won’t be a minute, Carey, lad. I’m going to my surgery. Don’t move.”
He hurried out, leaving Bostock standing with the glass and tin of water, breathing hard and staring down at the injured boy.
“Here, Bob,” said Carey, faintly. “What’s the matter?”
“You lie still and wait till the doctor comes back, my lad,” said the old fellow, gruffly.