Instantly there was a splintering crash, and the wreck rocked and heaved as though it would break apart. But Dick Ferral was not thinking of the derelict, just then. His every thought was for Carl.
The Dutch boy had pitched forward, the upper part of his body lying half over the hatch coaming.
"Carl!" cried Dick, frantically.
There was no answer. Carl's dangling feet swung backward and forward with the swaying of the wreck.
Dick, his heart in his throat, leaped up the ladder, bounded out on the deck, lifted Carl in his arms and carried him away from the hatch.
There was a smear of red on Carl's forehead, his face was deathly white and his eyes closed.
One of the cannon balls had knocked a hole in the bulwarks of the brig and scattered splinters all over that part of the boat. Carl, undoubtedly, had been struck by one of the flying fragments.
Kneeling at his chum's side, Dick laid a hand on his breast, then felt of his wrist. What he learned reassured him.
Hurrying to the galley he got what was left of a kettle of fresh water, ran back with it, tore a strip from the piece of canvas with which he had signaled the schooner, and began bathing Carl's forehead.
There was an ugly gash in the temple. So far as Dick could discover, however, the splinter had not done any serious damage.