Directly after he was back with us, who were carefully lifting Mr Brymer, while Mr Preddle lay so motionless that I was afraid he was dead.
Mr Frewen dropped on one knee, and began to examine the mate, while I watched him with intense eagerness, waiting to hear his words.
“It must have been a bad cartridge, or the pistol improperly loaded. It did not pierce the cloth of his cap, and even the skin of the scalp is not broken.”
“Then it will not be fatal?” I said.
“Fatal?—no! There may be a little concussion of the brain. You had better carry him into his cabin, my lads, out of the sun.”
The cook and one of the men who had returned to their allegiance lifted the mate carefully, and bore him toward the saloon, while Mr Frewen now directed his attention to the naturalist.
“I’m not in fit trim for acting as surgeon, Dale,” he said. “I’m bubbling over with excitement; my nerves are all on the strain with the struggle I have gone through. But we’ve won, my lad, thanks to those fellows who came over on our side. Now, Preddle, my good friend, how is it with you? Hah! Only been stunned. A nasty crack on the head though.”
He parted the hair to show me how the head had puffed up into a great lump; but I had hardly bent forward to examine it, as the poor fellow lay sheltered from the morning sun by the shadow cast by one of the sails, when he opened his eyes, looked vacantly about him, and then fixed them on me, and recognising me, a look of intelligence brightened in his gaze, and he said quietly—
“My fish all right, Dale?”
“I—I haven’t been to look at them this morning,” I stammered, hardly able to keep back a laugh.