“Nay, that cannot be; for on the Tuesday, as I went down to the beach, I saw them all fixed up in the stonework, and soldered in.  It must have been on the Monday—­the night on which old Nanny was nearly smothered by some one who went in to rob her.  I came there just in time to save her life; indeed, if you recollect, you were lame the next day, when I met you in the hospital.”

“Well, Jack, you may think what you please; but I tell you it was on the Wednesday.”

“Then you must have fallen over something else.”

“Perhaps I did.”

“Well, it’s of no consequence.  I’m glad to find that you’re so much better, for I was told that the doctor had said—­”

“What did the doctor say?” interrupted Spicer.

“Why, it’s better to tell the truth; he said it was impossible for you to get over it; that the inflammation was too great to allow of amputation now, and that it must end in mortification.”

“He said that!” said Spicer, wildly, raising himself on his elbow.

“Yes, he did; and it’s known all over the hospital.”

“Well,” replied Spicer, “he may have said so; but I think I ought to know best how I feel.  He’ll be here in half an hour or so, and then I’ll put the question to him.  I’m a little tired, Jack, so don’t speak to me any more just now.”

“Shall I go away, Spicer?”

“No, no, stay here.  There’s a book or two; read them till I feel a little stronger.”

That my communication had had an effect upon Spicer was evident.  He was startled at the idea of the near approach of death, which he had not contemplated.  Alas! who is not?  He shut his eyes, and I watched him; the perspiration trickled down his forehead.  I took up the book he had pointed out to me; it was the History of the Buccaneers, with plates, and I thought then that it was a parallel of Spicer’s own career.  I looked at the plates, for I was not much inclined to read.  In a few minutes Spicer opened his eyes.  “I am better now, Jack; the faintness has passed away.  What book is that?  Oh, the Buccaneers.  That and Dampier’s Voyages were the only two books of my father’s library that I ever thought worth reading.  Have you ever read it?”

“No,” replied I, “I never have.  Will you lend it to me?”

“Yes; I’ll give it to you, Jack, if you like.”

“Thank you.  Was your father a sailor, Spicer, as well as you?”

“Yes, Jack; a sailor, every inch of him.”

“Did you ever sail with him?”

“No, he died about the time that I was born.”  Here the doctor, who was going round the wards, came up to Spicer and asked him how he felt.  “Pretty well, doctor,” said he.

“Come, we must look at your leg, my man; it will require dressing.  Is it very painful?”

“Why, yes, sir; it has been very painful indeed all night.”

The hospital mates unbandaged Spicer’s leg, and took off the poultices, and I was horrified when I saw the state which his leg was in:  one mass of ulceration from the middle of the thigh down to half-way below his knee, and his ankle and foot swelled twice their size, a similar inflammation extending up to his hip.  The doctor compressed his lips and looked very grave.  He removed some pieces of flesh, it was then cleaned and fresh poultices put on.