His orders were so full of the force which makes men obey, that they were acted upon at once; and all the time Syd was on his knees busy.
Without a moment’s hesitation he had inserted his sharp knife at the left knee-band, and slit up the garment right to the groin, laying bare a ghastly wound that seemed to go right to the bone, and from which the blood came in one spot with a regular throb, throb, which Syd knew meant death before long if it was not stopped.
“Water, here!” he shouted.
“I must protest against this boy’s meddling,” cried Terry. “Mr Belton, let him die in peace.”
“Mr Roylance—” came in faint tones from the white lips of the wounded man, “take—Mr Terry—”
He fainted as he spoke, but it was enough. At a word from the midshipman two of the sailors secured Terry by the wrists, and he was forced away, while two other men ran for a bucket of water.
“Leave his head now, Barney,” cried Syd, in a quick, decided voice. “Your neckerchief, man. Quick, roll it up.”
This was handed to the young operator, who passed it under Dallas’s limb far up, tied it round in a knot, called for a jack-knife, and then shouted to the willing man who handed it to shut it up. This done he passed the knife inside the neckerchief, pressed it down on the inner part of the thigh, and then took his sheathed dirk from his belt.
This he also passed under the neckerchief, and began to twist round a few turns, drawing the bandage tightly down on the knife-handle, which, as he still twisted, was forced firmly home, pressing the artery against the bone.
This done, and the dirk secured so that it could not twist back, Syd turned to the gaping wound, from which the blood still welled, but sluggishly. The water was ready, and scooping some on to the wound, it was more plainly revealed as a great clean-cut gash, extending many inches.