“Bad enough,” replied the doctor. “Fracture, with a piece of bone resting upon the brain. We must get him on board the Nautilus at once.”
“Dangerous?”
“Pretty well.”
“Fatal?”
“In some hands,” said the doctor, importantly, “but we shall see.”
Mark could hardly believe it true an hour later when he was lying in a comfortable cot on board the Nautilus, with cool applications to his face and head, and a man told off to attend upon him—that man being Tom Fillot. The captain had been to see him, and shaken hands, thanking him for what he had done toward capturing the two schooners, the second, with Dance and Grote on board, being now only a few cables’ lengths away.
“We found you did not put in an appearance, Mr Vandean, so we sailed south in search of you, and a pretty dance you have led us. But you have behaved uncommonly well, my dear boy—very well, indeed.”
As soon as he could get a chance, Bob Howlett paid the patient a visit, and reported that the doctor had performed an operation upon Mr Russell’s head, and said that he had borne it very well.
“What an unlucky fellow he is,” Mark cried, as he lay there in perfect peace now that he was relieved of his responsibility, and could rest.
“Not half such an unlucky beggar as some one I know,” grumbled Bob.