Then a man slid down one of the starboard hoists and crawled aft to Dr. Fox. He had a great gash in one leg, with some spun yarn tied tightly about it.
"They're firing furious," he gasped, "and a splinter from the first cutter caught me."
Then the port guns ceased firing, and we heard the steering-engine rumbling "hard over".
"We are turning now, boys, and going past again. Stand by for the starboard guns," sang out the First Lieutenant.
The quarter-deck gun ceased firing. Now we were almost round again, and could faintly hear the boom of the Strong Arm's guns coming down the hoists.
There was a crash and a roar above us, something came clattering down one of the port upper-deck hoists, a man jumped and picked it up—a fragment of shell—and he dropped it again precious quickly with burnt fingers. I remember that the men all laughed at him.
"Want the doctor!" someone shouted down.
In a moment Dr. Fox was there with a bag over his shoulder. They made a bight in the rope hoist, he placed his foot in it, and grasped the rope over his head.
"Haul handsomely, men," he growled, and they hauled him up the hoist. He was down again in a minute or two, sliding down the rope.
"Too late!" I heard him mutter as he landed, his hands and sleeves covered with blood.