Tells of Death and Disaster.
To bind up Swinton’s wounds, some of which were ugly ones, was the first business of Grummidge, after he had hastily staunched the blood which was flowing copiously from his own cheek. The stout seaman was well able to play the part of amateur surgeon, being a handy fellow, and he usually carried about with him two or three odd pieces of spun-yarn for emergencies—also a lump of cotton-waste as a handkerchief, while the tail of his shirt served at all times as a convenient rag.
Having finished the job he looked earnestly at the pale face and closed eyes of his old enemy, and said— “You’ve bin pretty much banged about old chap—eh?”
As the wounded man made no reply, Grummidge rose quickly, intending to run to the settlement for help, knowing that no time should be lost. He was hastening away when Swinton stopped him.
“Hallo! hold on!” he shouted. Grummidge turned back.
“You—you’re not goin’ to leave me, are you?” demanded his enemy, somewhat sternly, “I—I shall die if you leave me here on the cold ice.”
An involuntary shudder here bore testimony to the probability of his fear being well grounded.
“Swinton,” replied Grummidge, going down on one knee, the more conveniently to grasp the unwounded hand of his foe, “you mistake my c’rackter entirely. Though I’m not much to boast on as a man, I ain’t quite a devil. I was only goin’ to run to Wagtail Bay to start some o’ the boys with a stretcher to fetch ye—an’ it’s my belief that there’s no time to be lost.”
“Right you are, Grummidge,” replied the poor man in a faint voice, “so little time that if you leave me here the boys will only find some human beef to carry back, an’ that won’t be worth the trouble.”
“Don’t say that, old chap,” returned the other, in a low, gruff voice which was the result of tender feeling. “Keep up heart—bless you, I’ll be back in no time.”