“Never mind the pup,” protested Brandon. “Tell me what you are doing on board.”
“Enjoying—or expecting to enjoy—a free journey to Chichester. The chances are I shall. You can’t very well go back to Dartmouth; you can’t put me overboard. So it seems as if I remain here a while, and I’ve brought my provisions!”
“I’ll see what Mr. Grant has to say,” decided Brandon, who had never before come in contact with such a self-possessed and precocious youngster.
“One minute,” interrupted Peter, drawing his chum aside. “Come for’ard.”
Craddock and Brandon made their way to the fore-deck, where Carline was slumbering in ignorance of what had occurred.
“Mr. Grant fainted just now,” reported Peter. “Heavitree’s with him. I fancy it’s his hand that made him go off. It’s a case of blood-poisoning, I’m afraid. I was boiling some water to make a poultice when this happened. I vote we say nothing to Mr. Grant until he’s had a good rest, but I leave it to you. You’re skipper.”
“Right-o!” agreed Brandon. “Where is he? In his cabin?”
“No, on one of the settees in the saloon.”
“Then carry on, old son. I’ll tell the others to keep clear a bit and not to disturb him. You can manage all right?”
Peter went below. He found that the Scoutmaster was nearly asleep and that the water was boiling. It seemed an unpleasant duty to have to rouse the patient, but it had to be done.