“Jove, but that was a beautiful bit of boat-handling—a 38 superb piece of seamanship!” muttered one of the surgeons, admiringly.
Powell Seaton, however, stopped to hear none of this. He gripped Tom by the arm, demanding hoarsely:
“You brought Clodis ashore? How is he? Where?”
“Still unconscious, sir, and the ship’s doctor offered no hope. You will find your friend in the port stateroom, sir.”
Signing to the surgeons to accompany him, Mr. Seaton vanished aft, the medical men with him. Ten minutes passed before Hank came up, alone.
“What do the doctors say, Hank?” demanded Tom, instantly.
“One chance in about a million,” replied Hank, in a very subdued voice—for him.
Five minutes later Mr. Seaton, hat in hand, also came up on deck.
“Mr. Seaton,” murmured Tom, eagerly, “I’ve been waiting for you. I—we’ve something to tell you.” Then the young skipper detailed the affair of taking Arthur Hilton from the “Constant” and transferring him to the Beaufort-bound schooner.
“Describe the fellow!” commanded Powell Seaton, suddenly, hoarsely.