“Father,” he whispered, hoarsely, “father. Oh, I say! Don’t die, and you shall give it me as much as you like. Father—Oh, it’s you, Master Syd. Be quick! He’s so bad. What shall I do?”
“Be quiet,” said Syd, quietly. “Don’t be frightened; he has fainted.”
“Then why did he go scaring a lad like that?” whimpered Pan, looking on.
“Hush! Be quiet. There: he is coming round,” said Syd, as the injured man uttered a loud sigh and looked wonderingly about him.
“Just let me get hold—Oh, it’s you, sir. Glad you’ve comed. I’m ready now.—Stand aside, Pan-y-mar, and give the doctor room.—Say, Master Syd,” he whispered, “don’t let that young sneak know what I said, but I do feel a bit skeared.”
“You are weak and faint.”
“But it’s about my legs, Master Sydney. Don’t take ’em off, lad, unless you are obliged.”
“Nonsense! I shall not want to do that. You are much bruised, but there are no bones broken.”
“Ay, but there are, my lad,” said the boatswain, sadly. “I didn’t want to say much about it, but I am stove in. Ribs.”
“How do you know?”