“Where am I?” he asked.
“You’re all right, sir,” replied Peter reassuringly. “Heavitree and I are looking after you. Lie still a little longer.”
The Scoutmaster did so. The ghastly greyish hue on his features was giving place to the glow of returning vitality. His thoughts were again becoming coherent, yet he felt a curious sense of resentment at being ordered to remain quiet.
With returning consciousness came the agonising throb of his swollen arm. His hand was trailing over the side of the settee. It felt like lead. He was hardly able to raise it.
“Silly of me to have gone off like that,” he soliloquised. “Well, that’s put me out of the running for a bit. Hang it all—no! What am I thinking about?”
A vision of the Kestrel with her youthful crew flashed across his mind. So far all was going well. The sea was calm, the weather fine. Brandon knew the course, but would he be able to take the yacht into port?
“I’ll go on deck now,” he declared.
“No, you won’t, sir,” countered Craddock firmly. “You aren’t fit to go. Wait till we’ve done something to that hand of yours. You’ll only make it worse if you bang it against something. I’ll dress it for you. Does it hurt much?”
“A little,” admitted Mr. Grant deprecatingly, for the pain was now intense. Possibly in his fall he had jarred the already badly swollen limb.
Peter went for’ard to boil some water and make a bread poultice. While the water was being heated he went on deck to tell Brandon and the others of what had occurred.