Stirling had finished his examination of the seaman's wound by the time Cushner returned from aft with the medicine chest. This contained bandages and crude cures which had the merit of being overly strong.
The Ice Pilot washed the wound with heavy fingers and pressed on a pad of salve which was rank with iodoform and arnica. He glanced keenly at Cushner, as Eagan sat up and stared about the forecastle with bewildered eyes.
"What did the old man say?" asked Stirling.
"Not much! Said the crew of this ship looked able to dodge blocks."
Stirling stooped to Eagan. "Who struck you?" he inquired, feelingly.
The seaman pressed his left hand to the bandage, then eyed his fingers. He gathered his senses, frowned deeply, staring about the empty bunks, and up through the opening to the deck. Faces were pressed there, faces curious and hard.
"I wasn't struck!"
The seaman's voice carried the lie in its tones. "I fell down over a bucket," he continued. "Slipped, I guess. Must have hit the corner of the molasses barrel. It's deuced sharp, it is."
Stirling removed a small portion of salve from a can, spread it upon a piece of paper, and handed it to the seaman with steady fingers.
"You lie!" he said with clenched teeth. "You lie about falling down. Remember that it may happen again."