“Hold on a minute, Reube. The way the boat lies now I think we can pry her off with the oar. See how the sands dip away on the outside.”
He was right. Using the big oar as a lever, they got the Dido afloat in a very few moments. Then Reube said:
“You sail the boat, Will, and I’ll see to the patient.”
“You had better let me attend to him while you steer,” suggested Will.
“No,” said Reube; “he’s my own private enemy, and I must look after him myself. You see to the boat.” And Will obeyed without more ado.
Had they been watching Gandy’s face they would have seen the eyes open and instantly close again. But Reube was delicately cutting the sleeve away and Will was watching the process, the sail, and the Dido’s course all at the same time. Gandy was conscious, but in a faint way he was wondering over the situation in which he found himself. Presently he heard Will speak again:
“Well, now you’ve got him, and the poor rascal is a good deal worse for wear. I can’t for the life of me see what you’re going to do with him.”
Will’s voice was kind, in a bantering way. He found it hard to maintain a proper degree of righteous indignation against a man whose life he had just saved. And that helpless arm he could not but contemplate with pity.
“I’m going to get him home and into the doctor’s hands,” said Reube. “It seems to me he’s punished enough this time, and maybe he’ll realize it. Anyway, I’m not going to take action against him after all the trouble we’ve had to save him. We’ll just say nothing about that shot from the rocks till we see how he turns out when he gets well. If there’s any good in him, this experience ought to bring it out. And there must be some good streak in a fellow that’s faithful to his family the way Mart is.”
By this time the arm was bare, and Reube was bathing it tenderly. Then, covering the wound with a wet compress, he bandaged it loosely and rose to fix a shelter over the patient’s face. To his amazement the tears were rolling down Gandy’s sallow cheeks.