“'Tis a warnin',” Mahoney cried. “Lave the b'y alone. Mark me words. His death'll do none iv yez anny good.”
“Try at the elbow—the left elbow, 'tis nearer the heart,” the captain said finally, in a dim and husky voice that was unlike his own.
“Give me the knife,” O'Brien said roughly, taking it out of the cook's hand. “I can't be lookin' at ye puttin' me to hurt.”
Quite coolly he cut the vein at the left elbow, but, like the cook, he failed to bring blood.
“This is all iv no use,” Sullivan said. “'Tis better to put him out iv his misery by bleedin' him at the throat.”
The strain had been too much for the lad.
“Don't be doin' ut,” he cried. “There'll be no blood in me throat. Give me a little time. 'Tis cold an' weak I am. Be lettin' me lay down an' slape a bit. Then I'll be warm an' the blood'll flow.”
“'Tis no use,” Sullivan objected. “As if ye cud be slapin' at a time like this. Ye'll not slape, and ye'll not warm up. Look at ye now. You've an ague.”
“I was sick at Limerick wan night,” O'Brien hurried on, “an' the dochtor cudn't bleed me. But after slapin' a few hours an' gettin' warm in bed the blood came freely. It's God's truth I'm tellin' yez. Don't be murderin' me!”
“His veins are open now,” the captain said. “'Tis no use leavin' him in his pain. Do it now an' be done with it.”