“I don’t mean that,” I said. “I mean, you will do your best to save his life?”
“For him to be punished by the law?”
“I was not thinking of that,” I said hastily. “I mean, that you will do all you can to cure him, Mr Frewen?”
“Why, of course, my lad—of course. Am I not a doctor? I am neither prosecutor nor judge. You have curious ideas about my profession.”
“I could not help it, Mr Frewen,” I pleaded. “It is only that I am so anxious for him to recover.”
“And do you another ill turn, Dale—betray us once more!”
“No, no, it isn’t that.” I cried; “it is only that I should like him to live and be sorry for all this. I believe, after what has taken place to-night, he would be only too glad to come over to our side, and fight for us.”
“Perhaps so, if he were well enough; but who would ever dream of trusting him again?”
I was silent, thinking as I was how terrible was the slip my messmate had made, and seeing now clearly how it must take years for him to climb back to the position he held when we left the London Docks.
“There,” said Mr Frewen at last, “you need not be afraid, Dale. I shall treat him as I would any other patient. A medical man has but one aim when he treats a sick person, a surgeon one who is injured—to make the sufferer well again. That is my duty here, and I shall do it to the best of my ability.”