“Take no notice of him,” said the doctor; “he must be carried in at once. Now off!”
Poor Watty was borne to the snow steps which rose right up to the gangway, carried in, and no sooner were they upon the gloomy deck, where they had to depend now for light upon a couple of swinging lanthorns, than the captain met them.
The place was quite misty with the men’s breath, which hung about like steam, in spite of the efforts made to keep the place warm; and things looked quite indistinct, especially about Watty, who had had to resign himself to his fate, and lay where he was placed upon the deck.
“What is it—a fall?” cried the captain; “broken leg?”
“No, frost-bitten,” said the doctor laconically. “Take off that fur coat, my lads.”
The huge sheep-skin coat was opened and drawn from Watty’s shoulders, leaving visible one of the blankets from his bunk doubled and rolled round him tightly, and held by a stout piece of cord that looked wonderfully like a portion of a walrus line.
“Watty laddie,” said Hamish, “she meant to keep hersel’ wairm,” and the men about laughed, all but Johannes and his companions, who were perfectly serious.
“Ay, she tid: ferry wairm as efer wass,” added Andrew. “Is it her nose?”
“That will do, my men; let me come,” said the doctor, kneeling down and hastily drawing off the big fur glove that Watty wore on his right hand, in spite, too, of a good deal of resistance on the lad’s part.
“Dinna lat him coot it off, Meester Stevey, sir,” he whispered. “Her mither wadna ken her if she went back to Ardnachree gin she had nae airms and legs.”