“Not half so bad as it will to-morrow,” said Mr Frewen, coolly. “You had a tidy fight then, you two?”
“Oh yes; don’t talk about it, please, sir. He made me feel so wild after I found out that he was only shamming.”
“Humph! Well, don’t let Miss Denning see you. If you had been knocked about like this in a struggle with those scoundrels under the hatch you would have won her sympathy; but a lad who goes and indulges in fisticuffs till his face looks like a muffin which has tumbled into the slop-basin, can’t show himself in ladies’ society till he has grown well.”
“Oh, I say, Mr Frewen!” I cried.
“It’s a fact,” he said, laughing at my dismal face.
“But can’t you put some stuff on it to make it look better?”
“No, nothing,” he said coolly. “I only know of one thing that will help you out of your difficulty,” he continued quietly.
“Yes,” I said. “What?”
“You must wait till we have another fight with the men forward, and then if you get knocked about, all those bruises will go to the same account.”
I was busily bathing my face and hands as he spoke, and then, as I began dabbing myself gently with a towel, there was an alarm from forward which suggested that, though I was getting stiffer and more sore every moment, the time had already come for the doctor’s remedy to be put in force, for there was a pistol-shot followed by several more, and a loud shouting which sounded like cries for help.