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's 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 whole-heartedly 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. He used his influence in the wardroom to keep the tongues of the young officers in order, so that Carthew's identification was kept out of the papers. And he rendered another service yet more important. He had a friend in San Francisco, a millionaire; to this man he privately presented Carthew as a young gentleman come newly into a huge estate, but troubled with Jew debts which he was trying to settle on the quiet. The millionaire came readily to help; and it was
