“Now, make a stretcher, some of you—ah, Dickinson, you are the man for this job; just make a stretcher, my good fellow—the same sort of thing that you made for the lad Bob, you know—and let’s get our patient into a boat as quickly as possible; I can do nothing with him here,” said Lance.
“Ay, ay, sir,” answered Dickinson promptly; and away he went with two or three more men to set about the work, Lance plying the injured man frequently with small doses of rum meanwhile.
Ralli stood upon the outskirts of the crowd angrily watching the proceedings. He could not shut his eyes to the fact of Lance’s popularity with the men, and he vowed within himself that he would make him pay dearly for it before the day was done, even if he were compelled to seize him up and flog him himself.
The stretcher was soon ready, and the armourer having been placed upon it, was carried as carefully as possible down to the boat. As the procession passed the shipyard Lance beckoned to Captain Staunton, saying—
“I shall need your assistance in this case. It will be a case of amputation unless I am greatly mistaken, and if so, I shall require the help of someone upon whose nerve I can depend.”
Captain Staunton, upon this, hurried back for his coat, and rejoined Lance just as the party was on the point of embarking in the boat. As the men propelled the craft swiftly across the bay Lance related in a loud tone to the skipper Ralli’s behaviour during the morning, and his threat. They were still discussing the matter anxiously together when Dickinson, who was pulling stroke-oar, and who doubtless guessed from catching a stray word or two what was the subject of their conversation, broke in upon their conference by inquiring of Lance whether he thought the armourer would recover.
“It is impossible to say yet,” answered Lance cautiously. “Of course we shall do our best for him, poor fellow, but he will require more attention than I fear Ralli will allow me to give him.”
“If that’s all,” remarked Dickinson, “I think you needn’t trouble yourself, sir; the Greek knows too well what he’s about to interfere with you when it comes to doctoring a hinjured man—a man as was hurt too all along of his own pride and obstinacy. And as to that other matter—the flogging, you know, sir—axing your pardon for speaking about it so plain, sir—don’t you trouble yourself about that. He sha’n’t lay a hand upon you while me and my mates can pervent it—shall he, mates?”
“No, that he sha’n’t, bo’,” was the eager answer.
“No, he sha’n’t,” coincided Dickinson. “We can’t do much to help you, you see, sir,” he added, “’cause, worse luck, we don’t all think alike upon some things; but we’ve only got to say the word to the rest of the hands, and I knows as they won’t hear of you bein’ flogged. There isn’t one of us but what respects you, sir, but what respects you gentlemen both, for that matter; you’ve always had a good word for everybody, and that goes a long way with sailors sometimes—further than a glass o’ grog—and you may make your mind easy that the Greek won’t be let to—to—you know what, sir.”