Two men were standing a short distance from his cot. Their backs were turned towards him, as they faced the open window. One he recognized as the genial captain of the Hammerer, the other was a fleet-surgeon on the hospital staff.
"Then you feel fairly confident that you'll be able to pull him through?" asked the Hammerer's skipper.
"There's every chance. He's as hard as nails, and will bob up like a cork."
"Rather a confusion of similes, my dear O'Loghlin," remarked the Captain with a chuckle. "All the same I'm glad to hear it. I want to ask you a favour. Let me know the moment Crosthwaite regains consciousness. I am particularly anxious, being his skipper, to be the first to tell him the good news."
"Very good, sir," replied the doctor. "I'll bear that in mind."
"It won't be detrimental to his recovery?"
"Faith, that it won't! It will buck him up considerably when he knows he's to get the D.S.O. He'll be up and fit for duty before we force the Dardanelles, you mark my words. He'll be in at the death when we take Constantinople."
"I hope so, too," agreed the captain of the Hammerer. "We can't afford to lose the services of such a promising young officer. I hope I'll live to see him attain flag rank."
Dick raised himself on one elbow.
"Thank you, sir!" he exclaimed.