He went on thinking and thinking. Presently, in a hazy sort of way, he became aware that his thoughts were ridiculously disjointed and absurd. The pain in his arm seemed to be subsiding, but in its stead he felt uncomfortably hot. His head was buzzing. Grey lights danced in front of his eyes.
Then Mr. Grant did something he had never done before in his life. He fainted.
A few minutes later Peter Craddock, who was making his way to the fo’c’sle, found his Scoutmaster lying inertly across the raised coaming of his cabin doorway.
Checking his first impulse to alarm the rest of the crew, Peter lifted the unconscious form and carried it into the saloon. Here, with very little effort, the Sea Scout lifted Mr. Grant on the lee’ard settee; then, going to the companion way, asked Heavitree in a matter-of-fact voice to step below.
“Don’t say anything to the other chaps,” cautioned Peter, when his chum came below. “Mr. Grant’s fainted. I found him lying in the doorway. Get some sal volatile and a basin of cold water while I loosen his collar.”
“What made him faint?” asked Heavitree, as he carried out Craddock’s instructions.
“Don’t know,” replied Peter. “It’s not concussion.”
“His finger, perhaps?”
“Rot!” ejaculated the lad contemptuously. Then he caught sight of the badly swollen hand. “By Jove! Believe you’re right, old son. I knew he had a nasty gash, but I never knew it was as bad as this. Skylight’s open: you might open all the scuttles. The more fresh air the better.”
Presently Mr. Grant opened his eyes and looked dazedly at his youthful attendants.