"One can dress your wound without having three men to hold you. I say,
Reardon, isn't it waste of good surgical skill for me to be dressing the
prisoners' wounds, if you folk are going to hang them?"
"I don't know that we are going to hang them," said the lieutenant
quietly. "Perhaps we shall deliver them over to the Chinese authorities
at Wanghai."
"What? My dear fellow, go and beg the captain to hang 'em at once out
of their misery. It will be a kindness. Do you know what a Chinese
prison is?"
"No."
"Then I do. It would be a mercy to kill them."
"The Chinese authorities may wish to make an example of them so as to
repress piracy."
"Let 'em make an example of some one else. Eh? Bandage too tight, my
lad?"
"No, sir," said Barkins rather faintly. "The wound hurts a good deal."
"Good sign; 'tis its nature to," said the doctor jocosely.
"But--er--you don't think, sir--"
"`That you may die after it,' as we used to say over cut fingers at
school. Bah! it's a nice clean honest cut, made with a sharp knife.
Heal up like anything with your healthy young flesh."
"But don't these savage people sometimes poison their blades, sir?"
"Don't people who are wounded for the first time get all kinds of
cock-and-bull notions into their heads, sir? There, go to sleep and
forget all about it. Healthy smarting is what you feel. Why, you'll be
able to limp about the deck with a stick to-morrow."
"Do you mean it, sir?"
"Of course."
Barkins gave him a grateful look, and Mr Reardon shook hands, nodded,
and left us to ourselves for a moment, then the doctor thrust in his
head again.
"Here, lads," he said, "Smith's all right, I've made a capital job of
his arm. Your turn next, Herrick. Good-bye."
This time we were left alone.