"H'm!" ejaculated Dr. Baker, when he examined the patient's arm. "Bit of a nasty mess. How did it occur?"
"I don't know," replied Mr. Graham, and proceeded to give a brief version of how he had found the owner of the yacht injured in his cabin.
With the Scoutmaster's assistance the doctor unbound the broken arm.
"Your youngsters know their work," said the medical man as he replaced the splints. "I've seen very little better work in some of the crack London hospitals. Oh, yes, when he comes to give him one of these pellets, and another in four hours' time if he's in much pain. I'll call in during the morning if you can send a boat for me at eleven sharp."
The Scoutmaster rowed the doctor to the quay. During the trip back to the guardship, Mr. Graham found himself wondering whether he had been wise in packing off his youngsters. Certain things had to be done, and if, while he was busy, the patient recovered consciousness it might be bad for the latter if there were no one on the spot.
Arriving alongside, Mr. Graham found that his surmises were correct. Mr. Collinson had regained consciousness, but fortunately Desmond had heard a noise and had gone to see what was the matter.
"How are you feeling now?" inquired Mr. Graham. "Rotten," declared Mr. Collinson pointedly. "This arm of mine is giving me what is commonly termed 'what for'."
"Take this," said the Scoutmaster, proffering the violet-coloured pellet. "Doctor's orders. He's been and gone."
"Morphine, eh? All right."
Ten minutes later the patient was sleeping soundly. Mr. Graham told Desmond to go to his bunk again; and, having seen that the dinghy was properly secured and that the yacht was lying comfortably alongside the guardship, the Scoutmaster "turned in all standing", ready at the first occasion to attend to his involuntary guest.