There was silence for a moment, and then all present burst into a roar of laughter, so great was the relief that the boy was not very bad.
“Ah, you may laugh, my lads,” said the boatswain, looking round; “but I do declare I’d sooner have a leg off with a shot than go through all that again. Thought I’d shot him.”
“So you did, father,” cried Pan, with a vicious look.
“Yah! Hold your tongue! Call that shot? No more than having a sail-needle slip and go through yer.”
“But it hurts like red-hot poker.”
“Good job too. Nothing to what you made me feel as I see yer lying there.—Lying! Yes, that’s the word, for yer did lie, yer shamming young swab.”
Pan began to cry silently, as Syd busied himself bandaging his hurt.
“And now he’s a piping his eye like a great gal on Shoreport Hard. Panny-mar, I’m proud o’ you, I am; but I feel that bad, Mr Belton, sir, that I’d take it kindly if you’d order me a tot o’ rum.”
“Take him up and give him one, Mr Roylance,” said Sydney, quickly; and while he went on bandaging the arm which Rogers held for him, Roylance and the boatswain went up to the chests and kegs which formed the stores, and filled a little tin.
“Thankye, sir,” said Strake, holding out one of his great gnarled hands for the tin, but drawing it back, for it trembled so that he could not take the rum; but he turned sharply round, laid his arm against the rock, and laid his face upon it, to stand so for some minutes before he turned back, wiping his eyes on the back of his hand.