But our astonishment culminated when we saw Drake leaning back in Mr Clare’s big chair in the farther end of the hold, his head bleeding, a sleeve torn off, and an expression of comically blended fatigue and dignified indifference in his face, while near the opposite side of the schoolroom, and on one side of the stairway we had descended, was Alfred Higginson lying on the floor, his head supported on an arm, his countenance the picture of pain and mortification.
Evidently the battle was over. The parties spoke not a word; and the first exclamation that came from us was Harry’s: “Hillo! A real duel, and no one killed.”
Our good Captain, his face full of tenderness and anxiety, hurried to Alf and lifted him up, but as he was so much hurt as to be only able to hobble a few steps, Captain Mugford lifted him in his arms and carried him on deck.
“What is all this, my poor fellow?” asked the Captain, as he got him on a bench there.
“Rather a long story, Captain, but no one to blame but Drake and me. He ain’t much hurt, is he?”
“That is what I want to ask you, Alf. Where is your pain?”
“There, sir, in my side. It is only stiff and bruised, but don’t touch it hard, please. There! where your hand is. And I believe my hand is somewhat cut.”
As it proved on examination by the doctor from the village, whom I brought over an hour afterwards, one of Alf’s ribs was broken and the palm of his left hand badly gashed.
Whilst the Captain and Harry Higginson had attended to Alfred, Mr Clare and Walter took care of Drake. He was very laconic in his replies to their questions, and made light of the injury; but he was faint from the wound in the head, and his sleeveless arm was so stiff as to be useless to him then.
Juno, who had found Clump, joined us before we reached the house with our wounded comrades; but at the sight of Drake’s bleeding head and Alfred carried in the Captain’s arms, Juno’s ejaculations recommenced, and Clump followed, only wringing his hands in mute despair.