"Never seen anything like it before! Nonsense! Nor have I! Did you get them all safely to the hospital ship?"
Dr. Gordon told him that he had only just returned from doing so. "The whole thing's silly, confoundedly silly, and this is the stupidest of all—this trip of ours," the Fleet-Surgeon snapped.
"It's not much of a joy ride, is it? You must be awfully tired," Dr. Gordon said in his nervous, self-disparaging manner, as if he too had not been hard at work the whole day.
Silence followed for some time, until the steam pinnace, swerving suddenly to port to pass two trawlers, indistinct in the darkness, jerked the launch after her and waked the Fleet-Surgeon. "Why the devil can't that young imp in the pinnace steer properly?"
The noise of furious rifle-firing coming from Sedd-el-Bahr stopped him for a moment, but then he went on again with his dismal groan. "A nice little job at this time of night. Running straight into it we are."
As the boats had altered course so much to port, they presently found themselves close under the high cliffs, and whilst being towed along in front of them, the moon, peeping out for a few moments, made them conspicuous.
Dr. O'Neill had just asked angrily: "Why the devil they wanted to go in so close! Didn't they know the Turks still held the end of them!" when ping! went a bullet over the stern of the boat and plunked into the water.
Another came, and another.
"Keep down, under cover!" growled Dr. O'Neill, more savagely than ever, and he and Dr. Gordon, the chief sick-berth steward and the four men of the crew, sat themselves down in the bottom of the boat. The Orphan, sitting exposed in the stern-sheets, wished he was ten sizes smaller.
They were close to the River Clyde now; its dark shape loomed just ahead of them, and the noise of firing crackled fiercely, tiny spurts of flame from hundreds of rifles lighting up the water's edge.