They had laid
Abercrombie in the stern-sheets, with the stoker Swainson beside him.
Abercrombie's plight was hopeless; flesh of chest and arms all
red-raw from the scorching, and the man palpably dying from shock.
"'I had him into my boat, sir,' Macnaughten explained gravely,
'because we'd shipped the ladies--all but Mrs. Farrell--in No. 1, and
I don't want 'em to be distressed more than necessary. . . . A man
can't think of everything all in five minutes, but I got him out of
it, soon as I could. There's no hope, think you?'
"'Between you and me, none,' said I, sinking my voice.
"'That's what I reckoned,' said the skipper, with just a nod of his
head. He had taken the tiller and sent all the crew, saving four men
rowing, forward whilst I examined the patients. 'Jock wouldn't be
one to let out a groan if he knew there were women by to be scared by
it. . . . Also, Doctor, if he's dying, I'd like to be handy by, if
you understand. I got him this berth. We were friends, always.'
"I found some cotton-wool and a tin of vaseline, and coated the poor
man's hurts as well as I could.
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