Part 8 (2/2)
”Can't give any account of himself yet,” said the surgeon. ”Weak and not rightly conscious.”
”What ails him?”
”Enough. Gash in his scalp. Fever. Thirst and exhaustion. Nervous shock, too, I think.”
”How came he aboard the _Laughing La.s.s_?” ”Does he know anything of Billy?” ”Was he a stow-away?” ”Did you ask him about Ives and McGuire?”
”How came he in the small boat?” ”Where are the rest?”
”Now, now,” said the veteran chidingly. ”How can I tell? Would you have me kill the man with questions?”
He left them to look at the body of the bo's'n's mate. Not a word had he to say when he returned. Only the captain got anything out of him but growling and unintelligible expressions, which seemed to be objurgatory and to express bewildered cogitation.
”How long had poor Timmins been drowned?” the captain had asked him, and Trendon replied:
”Captain Parkinson, the man wasn't drowned. No water in his lungs.”
”Not drowned! Then how came he by his death?”
”If I were to diagnose it under any other conditions I should say that he had inhaled flames.”
Then the two men stared at each other in blank impotency. Meantime the scarecrow was showing signs of returning consciousness and a message was dispatched for the physician. On his way he met Barnett, who asked and received permission to accompany him. The stranger was tossing restlessly in his bunk, opening and shutting his parched mouth in silent, piteous appeal for the water that must still be doled to him parsimoniously.
”I think I'll try him with a little brandy,” said Trendon, and sent for the liquor.
Barnett raised the patient while the surgeon held the gla.s.s to his lips.
The man's hand rose, wavered, and clasped the gla.s.s.
”All right, my friend. Take it yourself, if you like,” said Trendon.
The fingers closed. Tremulously held, the little gla.s.s tilted and rattled against the teeth. There was one deep, eager spasm of swallowing. Then the fevered eyes opened upon the face of the _Wolverine_'s first officer.
”Prosit, Barnett,” said the man, in a voice like the rasp of rusty metal.
The navy man straightened up as from a blow under the jaw.
”Be careful what you are about,” warned Trendon, addressing his superior officer sharply, for Barnett had all but let his charge drop. His face was a puckered mask of amaze and incredulity.
”Did you hear him speak my name--or am I dreaming?” he half whispered.
”Heard him plain enough. Who is he?”
The man's eyes closed, but he smiled a little--a singular, wry-mouthed, winning smile. With that there sprung from behind the brush of beard, filling out the deep lines of emaciation, a memory to the recognition of Barnett; a keen and gay countenance that whisked him back across seven years time to the days of Dewey and the Philippines.
”Ralph Slade, by the Lord!” he exclaimed.
”Of the _Laughing La.s.s_?” cried Trendon.
<script>