The man was stretched on a moderately clean
tablecloth laid on the small open space in the close dog-hutch below; a
dull pallor appeared to shine from _underneath_, and glimmered through
the bronze of the skin. He was sorely failed, poor fellow. The skipper
stood there--dirty, unkempt, grim, compassionate. Ferrier put away a
bucket full of stained muslin rags (he had tried his best to save the
limb), and then he said softly, "Now, my son, I think I can save you;
but you must take a risk. We can't send you home; I can't take you with
me until we get a turn of smooth water; if I leave you as you are, there
is no hope. Do you consent to have the leg taken off?"
"Better chance it, Frank, my boy. I dursn't face your old woman if I go
home without you."
"Will it give me a chance? Can I stand the pain?"
"You'll have no pain. You'll never know, and it all depends upon
_afterwards_."
"I stand or fall with you, doctor. I have some little toebiters at home
I don't want to leave yet."
"Very good. Now, skipper, stand by him till I come back; I have some
things to bring."
Two wild journeys had to be risked, but the doctor's luck held, and he
once more came on that glassy deck. Sharply and decisively he made his
preparations. "Have you nerve enough to assist me, skipper?"
"I'll be as game as I can, doctor."
"Then kneel here, and take this elastic bag in your hand; turn this rose
right over my hands as I work, and keep the spray steadily spirting on
the place.
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