“It’s all over with the poor lad, sir,” groaned Strake. “Better let him die in peace, and I gives myself up, sir. Nothin’ but misfortun’ here.”
“Try and bear it, Pan,” said Syd, gently. “I must see where you are hurt before I can do you any good.”
But the boy shrieked out wildly every time he was touched, and after many essays, Syd felt ready to give up in despair.
“Ha’ mussy on us!” groaned the boatswain. “Where’s he got it, sir?”
“I’m afraid it is somewhere in the body, Strake,” replied Syd, softly; “but I don’t like to give him pain.—Is the hurt in your chest, Pan?”
The boy shrieked again, as a hand was slid into his bosom.
“I’m afraid it is there, Barney; I ought to examine him and stop the bleeding.”
“Yes, sir; course you ought; but I don’t like to see you hurt the boy.”
“No, it is very terrible, but I’ll be as gentle as I can. Come, Pan, lad, be a man, and let me see where you are hurt.”
Syd touched him again, but there was another yell and kick, not before the boy pressed his chin down in his chest, and cried out more wildly than ever.