“Who was that shot?” cried Mr Frewen, rushing at the man and seizing him by the breast.
“Easy, sir; easy it is. You’d best ask the skipper.”
“I say, who was that shot just now?”
“And I says, ask the skipper, sir. It ain’t my business. My business is to bring you out. You’re wanted, and you’re to bring your tools.”
“Wanted? To attend the injured person?”
“I suppose so,” replied Hampton, with brutal callousness; and just as Jarette approached, “Here’s the captain, ask him.”
Mr Frewen did not ask, but darted to one of the little drawers with which his cabin was fitted, took out a case and a packet of surgical necessaries packed all ready for emergencies, and turned back to the door.
“Here, where are you going, youngster?” cried Hampton, who was looking in with a peculiar expression upon his countenance.
“With Mr Frewen,” I said stoutly.
“No, you’re not. Go back.”