Osborne leant heavily upon his chum's shoulder. "Tom," he whispered. "Don't have him shot if it can be possibly avoided. I—I——"
Then, with a stifled groan, he collapsed insensible at the feet of the astonished and horrified Sub-lieutenant.
A stretcher was quickly upon the scene, and, attended by a couple of surgeons, Osborne was removed to the Naval Sick Quarters. Examination revealed the presence of a deep knife-thrust that had narrowly missed the left lung.
"It's a case of revenge, without doubt," declared the senior medical officer to Captain M'Bride. "Mr. Osborne was the principal witness against the spy Hymettus, and one of the Greek's relatives or associates has tried the vendetta touch. Dangerous? Yes; it's no use mincing matters. Even if complications do not ensue—and these Greeks are not at all particular as to the antiseptic condition of their knives—Osborne will have a hard struggle for his life. One thing his appearance tells me: that he is a clean-living fellow, and that's greatly in his favour. By all means look in this evening, and I'll tell you how he is progressing."
Throughout the rest of the day Osborne lay unconscious. Towards night he began to speak, wildly and disjointedly. The nurse on duty noticed that in the midst of his incoherence he seemed to be imploring someone to save Laddie from being shot.
"That's his pet dog," said the principal medical officer when the sister reported the circumstance. "I've heard all about it from Captain M'Bride. He seemed devotedly attached to the animal, and, I believe, if the dog has to be destroyed, it seems likely that Mr. Osborne's chances will be greatly diminished. It's certainly remarkable, but the fact remains. If, when he recovers consciousness, he can be convinced that the dog is alive, half the battle will be won."
That night the Lieutenant was in the throes of fever, battling, although unconscious, with the grim Angel of Death.
* * * * * *
Sub-lieutenant Webb sat in the verandah of his quarters, nervously handling his heavy Service revolver. Not once, but many times, he had borne himself manfully in tight corners. He had been cheek by jowl with death without flinching. But now he was confronted with a problem that taxed his resolution almost to the uttermost.
With Osborne's words ringing in his ears he sat and fumbled irresolutely with the loaded weapon. Such a lot depended upon the next few moments, when a veterinary officer would arrive and give his verdict upon Laddie. If the dog's case were considered hopeless, Webb would be the executioner of his chum's pet. Osborne, he knew, would wish it. And yet, if anything could be done——