"Very good; see that the doctor attends to them first," said the sub. "Don't say a word about me until they have been dealt with."
"But we have already reported that you've been hit, sir."
"Then annul that part of the signal," ordered Tressidar firmly. "I'm quite comfortable. Now, remember, the men are to be seen first."
By the time the busy fleet-surgeon was free to attend to the sub.'s injuries, Tressidar was far from comfortable. Hot, throbbing pains shot through the wounded thigh. From the waist upwards he felt cold and shivery. More than once he felt as if he were on the point of losing consciousness again.
"It's no use disguising the fact, Mr. Tressidar," said the doctor in answer to the sub.'s point-blank question. "You have had a narrow escape. But for the prompt attention of these men in checking the flow of blood from the femoral artery you would have bled to death."
"Shall I lose my leg?" asked Tressidar, his mind filled with apprehension at the possibility—not so much of being a cripple, as of having to sever his connection with the Service.
"I think not.... No, no operation until we get him ashore.... Yes, up to our eyes in work... quite a big action... we had them this time... Our casualties heavy.... Shotley full up... had to send for additional staff."
These disjointed sentences were what Tressidar overheard in a conversation between the fleet-surgeon and his assistants. "Quite a big action." Not, of course, The Day, but a fairly decent scrap somewhere in the North Sea.
"Hurrah!" exclaimed the sub.
"Here, this won't do," remonstrated the doctor. But the reproof fell upon deaf ears. The sub. had relapsed into unconsciousness.