And Mr Brymer—
“Walters! Why, my lad, what are you doing there?”
“Help!” groaned my old messmate with a piteous look up at us; “half-smothered—water—help!”
“Well, mutineer or middy,” said Mr Brymer, “there’s nothing to fear from you. Take one arm, Dumlow,” and seizing the other himself, they hoisted Walters quickly out of the little compartment and set him on his feet; but his legs gave way, and he dropped on the deck and lay upon his back.
At that moment sounds came up from the hatch, which suggested the possibility of the mutineers breaking through the heavy bulk-head and making their way on deck that way, so before aught else was done, the hatch was securely fastened down again.
While that was in progress, but feeling wroth all the time, I bent down over the poor, miserable-looking wretch, whose eyes were following every movement I made, and recalling the shot I had heard fired, I at once came to the conclusion that he was hurt.
“Here,” I said roughly, “where are you wounded, so that I can tell Mr Frewen?”
“I’m—I’m—”
“Well, where?” I said, still very roughly, for the sight of the treacherous young wretch made a hot feeling of rage against him rise in my throat.
“Not—not wounded,” he said feebly.