“Ah, ’tis horrid, my lad; and I’ve been wishing we hadn’t cut and run. We was better off on board ship.”
“It’s of no use to talk like that, Jem. Are you much hurt?”
“Hand’s all cut about with that pistol busting, and there’s a hole through my left shoulder, as feels as if it had been bored with a red hot poker. But there, never mind. Worse disasters at sea, Mas’ Don. Not much hurt, are you?”
“I don’t know, Jem. I can remember nothing.”
“Good job for you, my lad. One of ’em hit you over the head with the back of a stone-chopper; and I thought he’d killed you, so I—”
Jem ceased speaking.
“Well, go on,” whispered Don.
“That’s all,” said Jem, sullenly.
“But you were going to say what you did when the man struck me.”
“Was I? Ah, well, I forget now.”