"What are you talking of? what do you mean by this?"
cried Wicks, snatching his half-bandaged hand away, so
that the blood sprinkled in the surgeon's face.
He did not trouble to remove it; looking straight at
his victim, he pursued his questions. "Why must Brown
go the same way?" he asked.
Wicks fell trembling on a locker. "Carthew told you,"
he cried.
"No," replied the doctor, "he has not. But he and you
between you have set me thinking, and I think there's
something wrong."
"Give me some grog," said Wicks. "I'd rather tell than
have you find out. I'm damned if it's half as bad as
what any one would think."
And with the help of a couple of strong grogs, the
tragedy of the FLYING SCUD was told for the first
time.
It was a fortunate series of accidents that brought the
story to the doctor. He understood and pitied the
position of these wretched men, and came wholeheartedly
to their assistance. He and Wicks and Carthew (so soon
as he was recovered) held a hundred councils and
prepared a policy for San Francisco. It was he who
certified "Goddedaal" unfit to be moved, and smuggled
Carthew ashore under cloud of night; it was he who kept
Wicks's wound open that he might sign with his left
hand; he who took all their Chile silver and (in the
course of the first day) got it converted for them into
portable gold.
Pages:
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676
677