Half an hour after Hegan had followed his confederate from the schooner to jail, Jack was lying in bed, joking with the doctor who was bandaging his wound, the pain in which was much easier now that it had been properly dressed.
“How about the Ferry?” the lad asked. “Mayn’t I get up to-morrow morning?”
“No,” replied the man of medicine firmly. “You’ll have to stay put for at least a couple of days. Fortunately it’s only a slight wound, but you must give it a chance to heal. You’ll be all right in a week, anyway. Now, promise me you won’t try to stand on that game leg till Tuesday morning.”
“All right, if you insist,” replied Jack. “Hello, Dad, is that you?” he added, raising his voice as the street door opened. He had not seen his father since returning from the astonishing trip in the Sea-Lark, for Mr. Holden had gone off on his usual Sunday-morning walk.
Pantingly Mr. Holden hurried up the stairs.
“What’s wrong with you, boy?” he asked as he entered the room. “I’ve just heard outside that you’ve been shot.”
“It’s only a scratch,” replied Jack. “The doctor says I’ll probably be able to get up to-morrow.”
“Tuesday,” the kindly old doctor corrected, trying to look severe and making a complete failure of it. “If you get out of bed to-morrow I’ll chloroform you and amputate both legs. Don’t worry about him, Mr. Holden. He’ll be all right. Healthy flesh like his soon heals, but I want to give it a fair start. Good morning, Jack. Tuesday, mind! Good morning, Mr. Holden.”
Mr. Holden looked white as he sat on the edge of his son’s bed, for he was not yet over the shock of the news.
“Tell me about it, Jack,” he said.