“Don’t take him below yet,” said Ferrier.  “Lennard, you help me.  Why, you’ve let his cap get stuck to his head, my man.  Warm water, steward”.

The man was really suffering only from extreme loss of blood; a falling block had hit him, and a ghastly flap was torn away from his scalp.  That steady, deft Scotchman worked away, in spite of the awkward roll of the vessel, like lightning.  He cut away the clotted hair, cleansed the wound; then he said sharply—­

“How did you come to let your shipmate lose so much blood?”

“Why, sir, we hadn’t not so much as a pocket-handkerchief aboard.  We tried a big handful of salt, but that made him holler awful before he lost his senses, and the wessel was makin’ such heavy weather of it, we couldn’t spare a man to hould him when he was rollin’ on the cabin floor.”

“Yes, sir; Lord, save us!” said another battered, begrimed fellow.  “If he’d a-rolled agen the stove we couldn’t done nothin’.  We was hard put to it to save the wessel and ourselves.”

“I see now.  Steward, my case.  This must be sewn up.”

Ferrier had hardly drawn three stitches through, when one of the seamen fainted away, and this complication, added to the inexorable roll of the yacht, made Ferrier’s task a hard one; but the indomitable Scot was on his mettle.  He finished his work, and then said—­

“Now, my lads, you cannot take your mate on board again.  I’m going to give him my own berth, and he’ll stay here.”

“How are we to get him again, sir?”

“That I don’t know.  I only know that he’ll die if he has to be flung about any more.”

“Well, sir, you fare to be a clever man, and you’re a good ’un.  We’re not three very good ’uns, me and these chaps isn’t, but if you haves a meetin’ Sunday we’re goin’ to be here.”

Then came the usual handshaking, and the two gentlemen’s palms were remarkably unctuous before the visitors departed.

“Look here, Lennard, if I’d had slings something like those used in the troopships for horses, I should have got that poor fellow up as easily as if he’d been a kitten.  And now, how on earth are we to lower him down that narrow companion?  We must leave it to Freeman and the men.  Neither of us can keep a footing.  What a pity we haven’t a wide hatchway with slings!  That twisting down the curved steps means years off the poor soul’s life.”

The gentle sailors did their best, but the patient suffered badly, and Ferrier found it hard to force beef-tea between the poor fellow’s clenched teeth.

Lucky Tom Betts!  Had he been sent back to the smack he would have died like a dog; as it was, he was tucked into a berth between snowy sheets, and Tom Lennard kept watch over him while Ferrier went off to board the disabled smack.  All the ladies were able to meet in the saloon now, and even the two invalids eagerly asked at short intervals after the patient’s health.  Lucky Tom Betts!