“Bit watery, sir, that’s all,” he said, with a smile. “Don’t tell Mr Belton, sir, what you see. Most men got their soft bit somewhere. I dunno, though. I’ve knowed Master Syd from a babby, and I wouldn’t mind if you told he; but pray don’t say a word before Mr Mike Terry. Thankye, sir.—Hah! That’s good rum, as I well knows. Here’s success to yer, sir, and may you never know what it is to be a father.” With which doubtful wish the boatswain drained the tin and smacked his lips.
“Well, sir, since you are so kind, I—No, put it away, my lad. No more to-night.”
The rum was replaced, and they rejoined the group near the lower gun, just as the finishing touches were being given to Pan’s wound by means of a handkerchief being tied loosely about his neck to act as a sling.
“Got that bit o’ rope, lad?” said the boatswain, and then, “Thankye,” as it was handed to him. “Beg pardon, sir, ought this here boy to have his fust dose to-night or to-morrer morning?”
“Not till I prescribe it, Strake,” said Syd, smiling, and the old man coiled up the piece of rope and put it in his pocket, very much to Pan’s relief.
Chapter Thirty Two.
“And where have you been?” said Syd next day, after examining his second patient’s injury.
“Down in a big hole yonder,” said the boy. “It’s on’y a sort o’ crack, but as soon as you gets through there’s plenty o’ room; and when I’d got a blanket and a bit o’ sail to sleep on, it beat the straw corner up in the tater-loft at home all to nothing, on’y I was getting very tired o’ nearly always biscuit. I say, Master Sydney, sir, you won’t let father give me the rope’s-end will you?”