“Don’t make a row now, for poor Dallas’s sake. Look! He’s dying.”
Syd looked at him quickly, and then turned back to face Terry, as he said in a dreamy way—“Is there no help?”
“Will you stand back, sir?”
“No doctor? No one who understands—”
“Here, bo’sun—Strake; seize Mr Belton, and take him away.”
No one stirred, but a murmur ran round the group as with a bitter cry of agony Syd stepped forward so quickly that Terry drew back, expecting a blow. But the lad did not even see him, and he was in the act of sinking on his knees to take the lieutenant’s hand, when his eyes rested on the piece of sail-cloth thrown tightly over the injured man’s legs, where a ruddy patch of blood was slowly spreading.
“He’s bleeding to death,” he cried excitedly; and a change seemed to come over the boy, as he bent down and quickly drew away the sail-cloth.
“This is too much,” cried Terry. “You meddling young fool!”
Syd flushed for a moment into anger. “Roylance! Strake!” he cried, “take that idiot away.” As he turned from the astounded middy, he threw off his jacket, gave one glance at Dallas, whose eyes were fixed upon him in a wild despairing way; and then knife in hand he was down upon his knees.
“Here, Barney,” he said, in cool firm tones, as recollections of what he had seen in the wood at home played once more through his brain; “down on your knees there by his head, and bathe his face with the cold water. Keep back on the windward side,” he continued. “Mr Roylance, let four men hold a sail over us to keep off the sun.”