“A little, sir; a scratch from a splinter, sir. The same shot that tripped up poor Wiggins, sent a splinter after me.”
“Why don’t you go to the doctor, Reefpoint?”
“I was waiting until he had finished with Wiggins, sir, but as it is all over with him now, I’ll go and have my wound dressed.”
His voice grew weaker and weaker, until I could hardly understand what he said. I took him in my arms, carried him into the cabin, and undressed him. I found that he was wounded in the right side just above the hip. Bangs, 99 who in the meanwhile had got over his weakness by the aid of a glass of water, lent his aid, and the natural goodness of his heart now made itself apparent.
“What, Reefpoint! little reefer,” he cried; “you are surely not wounded, my dear friend––such a little fellow; why I should as soon have thought they would have shot at a fly.”
“Indeed, I am wounded, Master Bangs; look there.”
Bangs examined the wound, holding the poor little midshipman in his arms.
“God bless me!” he cried, with an outbreak of the most heartfelt grief; “you seem more fit to be in your mother’s nursery, than to be knocked about in this way.”
Reefpoint sank fainting into his arms.
“With the captain’s permission you must have my bed,” said Aaron to him, whilst he and Wagtail undressed the boy with the greatest care and tenderness, and laid him in the hammock.