A little wee French midshipman of fourteen lay fearfully injured, but never uttered a sound till a physician of Memphis was about to dress his hurts. Then he said:
"Can I get well? You need not be afraid to tell me."
"No—I—I am afraid you can not."
"Then do not waste your time with me—help those that can get well."
"But——"
"Help those that can get well! It is, not for me to be a girl. I carry the blood of eleven generations of soldiers in my veins!"
The physician—himself a man who had seen service in the navy in his time—touched his hat to this little hero, and passed on.
The head engineer of the Amaranth, a grand specimen of physical manhood, struggled to his feet a ghastly spectacle and strode toward his brother, the second engineer, who was unhurt. He said:
"You were on watch. You were boss. You would not listen to me when I begged you to reduce your steam. Take that!—take it to my wife and tell her it comes from me by the hand of my murderer! Take it—and take my curse with it to blister your heart a hundred years—and may you live so long!"