“H’m!” he remarked in an undertone, as he examined the somewhat jagged cut. “It’s a case of the cobbler being the worst shod, I suppose. I’m always impressing upon the boys the absolute necessity of guarding against blood-poisoning, and in my case it’s precept without practice. Better late than never: I’ll smother the gash with iodine.”
He opened the medicine-chest, found and uncorked the iodine bottle.
“Finger’s throbbing already, I fancy,” he continued.
“How’s your hand, sir?” asked Brandon. “Let me bind it up for you.”
“Thought you were sound asleep, Frank,” remarked the Scoutmaster. “Thanks awfully, if you will.”
The Patrol Leader slipped out of his bunk and, taking the bottle, poured a few drops into the jagged wound. The sting of the iodine made Mr. Grant wince.
“That ought to do the trick, sir,” continued Brandon. “I’ll put a bandage round your hand. I wouldn’t use it if I were you; but there, you know all about that sort of thing, sir.”
“I’m supposed to,” admitted the Scoutmaster. “Unfortunately, when it comes to a personal matter one is apt to let such things slide. That’s quite comfortable. Now I’ll see what the watch on deck are doing.”
“Do you want me, sir?” asked Brandon. “I’ll turn out, if you like. I’d be only too pleased to.”
“No need,” replied Mr. Grant. “Sleep while you can. I may want you when we enter harbour, but that may be hours yet.”