"Very bad?" Mark heard the first lieutenant whisper.
"Bad enough," replied the doctor. "Fracture, with a piece of bone resting upon the brain. We must get him on board the _Nautilus_ at once."
"Dangerous?"
"Pretty well."
"Fatal?"
"In some hands," said the doctor, importantly, "but we shall see."
Mark could hardly believe it true an hour later when he was lying in a comfortable cot on board the _Nautilus_, with cool applications to his face and head, and a man told off to attend upon him--that man being Tom Fillot. The captain had been to see him, and shaken hands, thanking him for what he had done toward capturing the two schooners, the second, with Dance and Grote on board, being now only a few cables" lengths away.
"We found you did not put in an appearance, Mr Vandean, so we sailed south in search of you, and a pretty dance you have led us. But you have behaved uncommonly well, my dear boy--very well, indeed."
As soon as he could get a chance, Bob Howlett paid the patient a visit, and reported that the doctor had performed an operation upon Mr Russell"s head, and said that he had borne it very well.
"What an unlucky fellow he is," Mark cried, as he lay there in perfect peace now that he was relieved of his responsibility, and could rest.
"Not half such an unlucky beggar as some one I know," grumbled Bob.
"Oh, you mean me," said Mark, quietly.
"That I don"t," cried Bob. "I call you lucky."
"Me?"
"Yes; look at the fun you"ve had all to yourself. A regular cruise."
"Fun?"
"Yes, fun. Captain of the schooner; capturing another; complimented by the skipper; praised by old hooks and staples; and of course, just when I thought I was going to distinguish myself, and charged down into that dark cabin and made sure I"d captured the skipper at the point of my sword--"
"Dirk," said Mark.
"Well, dirk, if you like--of course it must turn out to be you. Bah!
it"s disgusting."
"Nonsense!"
"It is, I say," cried Bob, angrily. "You get all the fat and gravy of life. And now you"re as good as wounded, and you"ll be named in the skipper"s despatch, and--but oh, what a lark!" cried Bob, bursting into a roar of laughter. "What a jolly old fifth of November guy you do look!"
CHAPTER FORTY TWO.
CONVALESCENCE.
"Hallo, old mole!"
"I"m going to give you a thoroughly good licking, Bob, as soon as I get well," said Mark, a few mornings later, on being saluted as above.
"I should like to see you do it."
"You shall, my dear young friend. Last night it was rat; night before owl; now it"s mole."
"Well, so you are a jolly old mole. Regular night bird."
"Didn"t know a mole was a night bird."
"Boo! clever. He"s getting well, is he? You"re always sneaking about in the dark. Why, if I"d been wounded I should be proud of my scars."
"Should you?" said Mark, pa.s.sing his hand over his bald head and scorched eyebrows. "Well, I"m not, and I shan"t care about showing myself till my hair"s grown."
"Look here, I"ll get the armourer to make you a wig out of some oak.u.m."
"Bob Howlett, I"m strong enough to lick you now," said Mark, gripping the boy"s thin arm, "so just hold your tongue. Now tell me how"s poor Mr Russell?"
"Coming round fast. Whitney goes about rubbing his hands when he thinks no one is looking. He"s as proud as a peac.o.c.k with ten tails because he operated on Russell"s head and lifted up something, and now the poor fellow"s going on jolly. I like Russell."
"So do I. He"s a true gentleman."
"And I shall make him take me next row there is on. He"s sure to be wounded or something, he"s such an unlucky beggar, and then I should have to be in command."
Mark burst out laughing.
"Now don"t be sneering and jealous," cried Bob. "Think n.o.body else can capture slavers but you? Nasty slice of luck, that"s all it was. Yah!
I"m sick of it."
"Of what?"
"Hearing the fellows puffing and blowing you up. You"ll go pop like a soap bubble one of these days."
Mark laughed good-humouredly.
"Anyone would think you had done wonders, and were going to be promoted to admiral instead of being only a middy who has to pa.s.s his examination years hence, and then going to be plucked for a m.u.f.f, for I know more navigation than you do. Look here, Guy Fawkes: when the sun is in right declination forty-four degrees south, how would you find the square root of the nadir?"
"Put your head a little nearer, Bob; I can"t hit out quite so far."
"Hit--hit me? Why, you bald-headed, smooth-faced--No, I won"t jump on you now you"re down. I"ll be bagdadibous, as the chap with a cold in his head said through his nose. Favourite of fortune, I forgive you."
"Thankye."
"Because I shall get my whack of the prize-money same as you, old chap."
"Ah, how are all the slaves?"
"Nice and clean. They"ve all been white-washed."