“I’ve had a look in at my place forward, and quite half the fish are dead.”
“I’m very sorry,” I shouted; and then in a lower voice to Mr Frewen—“Do have a look at poor Walters, sir,” I said; “he’s very bad.”
“Yes, he’s very bad, Dale, mentally as well as bodily, I hope.”
“Oh yes, sir; he’s horribly sorry now.”
“Sorry?—Hah!”
I felt that I was not evoking much sympathy for my messmate, and I changed my attack.
“Dumlow’s in a lot of pain too, sir,” I said. “I should be so glad if you’d see to him.”
“Poor fellow! Yes, I know his wound’s worse than he’ll own to. He shall have it dressed as soon as I get back. I wanted to do it before, but he was as obstinate as a mule.”
“Coming, Mr Frewen?” came from aft; and the doctor went on, leaving me once more alone, to go on searching out hot places with that jet of water till he returned and stood by me.
“Why, Dale,” he said, “you are winning.”