“I thought I knew enough.”
“Yes, sir, but I did examine him when you sent me below to see how he was, and I found out.”
“What?” cried Mark, eagerly.
“Well, sir, he’s got the same as an old messmate o’ mine had in my last ship—the Foogoose.”
“The what?”
“Foogoose, sir.”
“Oh, the Fougueux.”
“That’s her, sir. Well, we was up aloft shortening sail on a rough day, and Micky missed the stirrup just as the ship give a regular pitch. ‘I’m off, Tommy,’ he shouts, and down he went head fust on to the yard below, and then Snoots off on to one of the stays, and from there on to the deck, where every one thought he was killed. But he warn’t, only onsensible because his skull was dinted in, and the doctor said it rested on his brain; and that’s what’s the matter with our lufftenant, for I felt his head.”
“And did the man die?” cried Mark.
“No, sir; the doctor tackled him, and lifted up the bit o’ broken bone, and made him a better man than ever; and that’s what Mr Whitney’ll do with Mr Russell, sir, as soon as we get back to the Naughtylass.”