“Well, for my part,” said old Dick, “if I was to go in for being cunnle of a regiment, I should like that there regiment to be all private Simses, and then I’d have all the officers doctors.”
“And a big hospital for barracks,” said the sergeant, laughing. “And rations of physic served out every day,” cried Billy Mustard.
There was a hearty laugh at this; but it was checked directly, as the men recalled that one of their number was lying in grievous peril; while Private Sim glanced round, uttered a snarl like that of a hyena, then turned back and gave his left hand another punch.
“Laugh at me, will yer?” he growled, “when I’m so jolly ill. Just let me get hold o’ that there fiddle o’ yours, Master Billy Mustard, and I’ll smash it, see if I don’t.”
He seemed to feel better after this threat, and stood leaning over the bulwarks, and spitting down into the sea, while one of the sailors went aft to learn some tidings concerning Adam Gray.
Meanwhile, the centre of an anxious knot of observers, the young soldier lay breathing very feebly in spite of the stimulants frequently administered; and Bob Roberts, as he knelt close by on the deck, watched with a strange feeling of heart-sickness coming over him. He could not conceal from himself the fact that he had been the cause of all the suffering; and full of self-reproach, he knelt there, considering whether he should ever forget that scene, with the pale face of the fine young fellow lying before him.
Gray seemed to be in no great pain, but to be suffering more from a strange delirium caused by the working of the tiny drops of poison injected in his veins. He muttered a few words occasionally, and started convulsively from time to time; but when spoken to, he calmed down, and lay, apparently, waiting for his end.
“Don’t know; can’t say,” was all that could be got from the doctor, as the hours crept on—hours when the heat of the sun was terrible; but no one left the injured man’s side.
The specimens in the buckets were forgotten, and died; the cause of the misfortune grew dry and shrivelled, where it had twined and wriggled itself, half a dozen yards away, the dangerous head being thrown overboard by Bob Roberts, and swallowed by a fish before it had descended many feet.
Both the resident and the captain had tried to persuade the ladies to leave the sick man’s side; but they had declined to go, and Doctor Bolter had nodded approval.