A Dream of the North Sea | Page 9

all they could to
keep the boat steady, but after every care the miserable sufferer fell at
last with a sudden jerk across the schooner's rail. He was too weak to
moan.

"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!
Marion Dearsley begged that she might see him, and Tom gave
gracious permission when he thought his charge was asleep. Miss
Dearsley was leaning beside the cot. "Like to an angel bending o'er the
dying who die in righteousness, she stood," when she and Lennard met
with a sudden surprise. The wounded man opened his great dark eyes
that showed like deep shadows on the dead white of his skin; he saw
that clear, exquisite face with all the divine fulness of womanly
tenderness shining sweetly from the kind eyes, and he smiled--a very
beautiful smile. He could speak very low, and the awe-stricken girl
murmured--
"Oh, hear him, Mr. Lennard, hear him!"

The man spoke in a slow monotone.
"Its all right, and I'm there arter all. I've swoor, and Ive drunk, and yet
arter all I'm forgiven. That's because I prayed at the very last minute,
an' He heerd me. The angel hasn't got no wings like what they talked
about, but that don't matter; I'm here, and safe, and I'll meet the old
woman when her time comes, and no error; but it ain't no thanks to
me."
Then the remarkable theologian drew a heavy sigh of gladness, and
passed into torpor again. Tom Lennard, in a stage whisper which was
calculated to soothe a sick man much as the firing of cannon might,
said--
"Well, of all the what's-his-names, that beats every book that ever was."
Tears were standing in