Dispiritedly, he slumped against the table.
“Master down an’ out wit’ drugs,” he said. “That’s what comes av association’ wit’ these Chinee people. You get to be a dopefiend. An’ doctor so scared he’s av no use. Uh.”
Frank advanced.
“Look here, Mr. Murphy,” he said. “If your arm’s hurt, let us examine it. Bob here is a pretty good hand at rough surgical work. He took a course in first-aid, so he could help out in football accidents at school.”
Murphy looked up hopefully.
“That so? Well, have a luk, lad. Here”—addressing Frank—“ye’ll find bandages an’ splints an’ iodine in that cabinet in my cabin. Go an’ git ’em. An’ bring me that bottle o’ licker ye’ll find there, too. I nade somethin’ to put sperrit in me this night.”
One long pull he took at the bottle of liquor, then ordered Frank to take it away, after Mr. Temple had declined his offer of a drink.
“One’s enough,” he said. “I’ve got work to do an’
must kape my head. Now lad”—extending his arm and addressing Bob—“go ahead.”
Murphy was without a coat, and Bob’s first move was to cut away the left sleeve of his flannel shirt. Deftly Bob worked, aided now and then by his companions, while Murphy sat without a groan throughout the whole operation. Beads of perspiration dotted his forehead. At the end, however, his arm was neatly and stoutly bound in splints and lashed across his chest.