"Arm," answered Jerry. "Help me get below."
The archæologist supported Jerry to the companion, and then almost carried him down the steps. He tried to place him on the transom, but Taberman stubbornly walked half the length of the cabin, and sank into a chair by the table. His lips seemed to him queerly stiff as he twisted them into a wry smile.
"Mustn't bleed on the cushions, y' know," he said feebly. "Call Gonzague."
Wrenmarsh shouted the name explosively, hovering solicitously over Jerry, and in a moment the Provençal appeared. Jerry made a mighty effort to pull himself together.
"Here, Gonzague," he said, "get the medicine-chest, and strip my coat off. I've got to be fixed. I want some hot water and a b. and s. Beg your—pardon," he added, turning slowly to Mr. Wrenmarsh, and confusedly wishing that the cabin would not turn so much faster than he could. "I'm forgetting. This gentleman's to have Jack's—the captain's stateroom. Will you have anything to drink? 'Fraid I'm poor host, but"—
"No, no," cried the archæologist. "That's all right. The brandy, Gonzague, quick!"
A brandy and soda put fresh life into Jerry, who still tried to be polite, and protested that the collector should not bother.
"You'll find me a first-class chirurgeon," responded the other. "Where's the medicine-chest, Gonzague?"
He proved remarkably ready and efficient and kindly withal. He stripped off Jerry's jacket and cut away the shirt-sleeve, to discover a two-inch sliver of African oak from the gunwale of the cutter stabbed into a jagged hole in the forearm. He probed and cut and trimmed with the skill of a trained surgeon, while Jerry, pale and with set teeth, bore it all with Spartan firmness until everything was over, and then, as he tried to rise when the last bandage was in place, fainted dead away.