“Sure, March,” Stan said. “Pat him on the back for me. Hope it’s not bad.”
March stood at the door of Gray’s quarters. There was not room inside. Larry was on his bunk, looking up to smile with an effort, but with pain marking his face.
“This was one if we didn’t think of, wasn’t it, March?” he asked.
“How are you, Larry?” March asked.
“It hurts like the devil,” the Skipper replied. “I think there’s two or three slugs in my chest somewhere. Sallini will be able to tell in a minute.”
The pharmacist was ripping off Gray’s shirt and undershirt, which showed spreading stains of blood. McFee helped him, trying to move Gray as little as possible. Then Sallini examined the wounds carefully for a few moments.
“Three’s right, Skipper,” he said. “And they’re still in you. I don’t see how this one missed the heart but it must have or you wouldn’t be talking now. This one up here busted your collar-bone. That’s what hurts so much right now. And the other, on the right side must’ve gone right through the lung. I can’t tell if any might be lodged in the spine or not. Doubt it or you’d have passed out—couldn’t move much.”
“Can’t move much anyway,” the Skipper replied weakly.
March saw that his face was draining white, and his eyes began to cloud over.
“Sulfa tablets, anyway,” Sallini said. “And bandages to stop the bleeding here, though there’s not much likely to come out while he’s lying down. May be some internal bleeding but I couldn’t do anything about that. Don’t know what else I could do right now.”