Mr. Greatorex fumed.
“This puts a stop to it, Tom. It’s a villainous business, and we’ll go straight back home.”
Tom made no reply. He was completing the adjustment of a tourniquet.
“And we’ve no doctor on board!” Mr. Greatorex went on. “We’ll run back to Gibraltar and get assistance. Can’t let the poor fellow bleed to death, you know.”
“He’ll no bleed to death,” said M’Cracken huskily. “It’s just a wee flesh wound. He’ll be a’ richt in a twa-three days.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“The question is, who shall I take with me now?” said Tom, rising to his feet and ignoring Mr. Greatorex’s expressed determination to go home. “The sooner I’m off the better, for that rascally Jew will tell all he knows about the airship, and the Moors will be on their guard.”
“But we’re going home, Tom.”
“Surely you won’t let our enterprise be ruined by a rogue!” replied Tom. “There’s all the more reason for going on with it.”
“Gad, you’re right,” cried Mr. Greatorex, veering round again. “We’ll do it in the teeth of them. But you’ll want some one with you in place of Tim. If I were twenty years younger I’d go myself. You want a man who knows something about engines. Can’t spare you, Mumford, I’m afraid.”