Dick Delfazio smiled again and then began to clean his knife on a dainty lace-edged handkerchief.
Then his crew entered, and he looked up casually as they filed in and turning to the least wounded man he pointed to a chair over the back of which his black silk coat was hung.
“Prithee, friend, help me into my surcoat,” he said, his voice caressing and honey-like as ever. “For see,” he added, turning round, “I am much hampered.”
The crew started.
The sleeve of the white shirt was split from the shoulder to the elbow, displaying a terrible ragged wound which at one place had laid bare the bone, and from the bend in the elbow the warm blood trickled on to the floor.
This was the last act of Thomas Playle’s hand and he had done his best.
Dick slipped into his coat and then surveyed the crew.
“Wash yourselves, friends,” he admonished, “the wenches will come down now and may be feared at the sight of blood.” He staggered a little and his face grew ashy pale, but he rallied himself and with some of his usual jauntiness said loudly, “Bring me some wine.” Already the black silk sleeve of his coat was sodden and sticky, and the arm inside it hung limply from its socket; once again he staggered, tried to recover himself and failed, and then, very faint from loss of blood, Black’erchief Dick rolled over on his side, unconscious.
Blueneck picked him up like a child and stripping off the coat called loudly for Anny.
“Surely the girl knows somewhat of physicking. The Captain may bleed to death,” he said sharply in answer to Hal’s suggestion that they didn’t want wenches about the place.