“If he can only last out until we reach Barbadoes, I believe we might save him yet; but it is this constant motion which is irritating his wound, and sapping his life. When do you think we shall get in?”
“To-morrow morning, if the breeze holds,” I replied.
“Too late, I am afraid,” said my companion, shaking his head. “The patient is in such a critical state that a few hours more or less may make all the difference between life and death to him. However, I will not give him up without a fight. Mr Stuart and I will watch him through the night, and perhaps you could arrange to stay with him through the dog-watches, could you?”
“Assuredly,” I replied. “I will speak to Mr Flinn about it, and I am sure he will excuse me.”
“Very well, then; that’s arranged,” said the doctor. “Now run away with that draught. If the poor boy is still agitated, give it him at once; if not, keep it by you for the present.”
I returned to the cabin, and found that little Six-foot had stopped crying, and seemed disposed to sleep, so I put the bottle in a place of safety, and whispered to the skipper the doctor’s arrangement.
“All right,” he returned. “You remain here. I must go on deck now; and I will mention to Flinn that you will not be on deck during the dog-watch.”
He stole out on tiptoe, and I was alone with my patient. I settled myself in a low chair near the cot, and looked out through the stern-port. The sun was just setting, and the western sky glowed with the same gorgeous colouring which it had worn on the evening of the funeral. The sight reminded me of the sad incident, and I wondered whether we were to have a sadder one yet. I sat for some time lost in mournful thought, when there was a slight stir in the cot, and I heard little Fisher’s voice say weakly—
“Is that you, Ralph, sitting there? It is so dark I can scarcely make you out.”
“Yes, it is I,” I answered cheerfully. “How are you now, Six-foot? You have had a bit of a snooze, have you not?”