when we had got
the first prisoner in hand. He began laying about him with a knife, and
gave it to two of our lads badly, and just caught me in the leg. It was
so little that I didn't like to make a fuss about it. Here, stop, don't
leave a chap. I want to talk to you."

"Back directly," I cried, and I hurried on deck so quickly that I nearly
blundered up against Mr Reardon.

"Manners, midshipman!" he said sharply. "Stop, sir. Where are you
going?"

"Doctor, sir."

"What, are you hurt, my lad?" he cried anxiously.

"No, sir, but poor Barkins is."

"Bless my soul, how unfortunate! Mr Smith down too! Where is he?"

I told him, and he hurried with me to the doctor, who was putting on his
coat, after finishing the last dressing of the injured men.

"Here, doctor," cried Mr Reardon sharply, "I've another man down--boy,
I mean."

"What, young Smith? I've dressed his wound."

"No, no; Barkins has been touched too."

"Tut, tut!" cried the doctor, taking up a roll of bandage. "Are they
bringing him?"

"No, sir; he's sitting by his berth. He tied up the wound himself."

Without another word the doctor started off, and we followed to where
Barkins sat by the table with his back leaning against the side of his
berth, and as soon as he caught sight of us he darted a reproachful look
at me.

"Oh, I say, Gnat," he whispered, "this is too bad." For the doctor had
raised the leg, and, after taking off the handkerchief, roughly tied
round just above the knee, made no scruple about slitting up the lad's
trousers with an ugly-looking knife, having a hooky kind of blade.

"Bad?" said Mr Reardon anxiously.

"Oh dear, no," replied the doctor. "Nice clean cut. Sponge and water,
youngster. Ha, yes," he continued, as he applied the cool, soft sponge
to the bleeding wound, "avoided all the vessels nicely."

"Gnat, old chap," whispered Barkins, as I half supported him, "pinch me,
there's a good fellow."

"What for?" I whispered back.

"Feel sicky and queer. Don't let me faint before him."

"Here, hallo! Barkins, don't turn like a great girl over a scratch--
lower his head down, boy. That's the way. He'll soon come round. Ever
see a wound dressed before?"

"No, sir," I said, repressing a shudder.

"Don't tease the boys, doctor," said Mr Reardon sharply; "get the wound
dressed."

"Well, I am dressing it, arn't I?" said the doctor cheerily, and as if
he enjoyed his task. "I must draw the edges toge