“It was Walters who was hit first,” I said, from where I knelt in the bottom of the boat.
“Where is he? Somewhere forward?”
“No; here,” I said.
“Has any one matches? It is impossible to see,” muttered Mr Frewen.
“He is hit in the chest, sir,” I said.
“How do you know?” cried Mr Frewen. “Is this your hand, my lad? What are you doing?”
“Holding my neckerchief against his side to stop the bleeding,” I said in a low voice.
“Hah!”
It was only like a loud expiration of the breath, as Mr Frewen knelt down beside me, and cutting away Walters’ jacket he quickly examined the wound by touch, and I then heard him tear my neckerchief and then one of his own pocket-handkerchiefs.
“Your hand here. Now your finger here, my lad,” he whispered to me. “Don’t be squeamish. Think that you are trying to save another’s life.”