"What is it, Pat?" he asked darting to the man's side.
For answer the Irishman held out his right hand and, to his horror, Bob saw a tiny feathered dart sticking in the back of it. Without an instant's hesitation he pulled his knife from his pocket and, after yanking the dart out, he stuck the point of the keen blade fully three quarters of an inch into the wounded member. A spurt of blood followed the removal of the blade and, seizing his wrist he pressed with all his might, at the same time applying his mouth to the wound. Pat, who had seemed a bit dazed, now tried to pull his hand away, but Bob hung on and sucked and spat out the blood until no more came.
"How do you feel?" he asked as he finally took his lips away.
"A—a bit faint but sure an' it's nuttin'."
"God grant I got it in time," Bob prayed.
"Yees had better be gittin back," Pat stammered weakly.
"You think you'll be all right?"
"Sure I will."
Knowing that he had done all he could and that he ought to be at his post, Bob hurried inside where he found a water cooler and hurriedly washed out his mouth, and then went quickly back to his station. All this had occupied less than two minutes but, during that interval he had heard several shots from different parts of the boat, and realized that the native boats must be all around them.
But when he got back to his place all was quiet, and he judged that the shots had made the natives a bit cautious.