Syd tried to speak, but he was like one in a dream.
“If I knew who it was—” said Roylance.
“What would you do?” said a voice, which Syd seemed to recognise; “go and tell his daddy?”
“No; I’d tell him he was a mean-spirited, cowardly hound,” said Roylance, “and not fit for the society of gentlemen.”
“Hark at the bishop’s boy, I dare say he did it himself.”
“Just the sort of thing I should do!” replied Roylance, sharply. “More likely one of Mike Terry’s brutal tricks.”
“Oh, very well, Master Roy. You and I can talk that over another time. So you mean to say I did it?”
Roylance did not answer, and just then Sydney recovered his voice, the faintness passing away like a cloud. “Was it he?” whispered the boy. “I’m not sure,” whispered Roylance. “Don’t quarrel because of me. Does my head bleed now?”
“No; I’ve tied my handkerchief tightly round it. Lie still, you’ll be better soon.—Here, marine, knot up that hammock again. You shan’t be cut down again, for I’ll keep watch.”
“There’s nothing the matter,” said Terry, from the other end of the berth; “it’s only one of Miss Roylance’s fads. Currying favour with the skipper by making a pet monkey of his boy.”