CHAPTER XXI
WALTER'S WOUND
"Do you see anything of them yet, Palmer?"
"Don't see a soul, Russell," replied the sailor from the Torktown, after a long look through the trees and over the rocks. "My idea is that all hands have cleared out of this locality."
Walter's face fell, and he gave a deep sigh. "I was in hope you would see my friend," he murmured. He felt too weak to do much talking.
"Nobody around; I'm dead sure on that," returned the sailor. "But don't you worry—I don't think Doring's dead—nor my messmates either."
Morning was at hand, and Walter had been lying for hours just where Palmer had placed him. The wounded limb was still numb, and the youth was almost afraid to stand upon it, for fear of starting the flow of blood afresh.
Palmer had remained on guard all through the darkness, caring for Walter in the meantime with the tenderness of a woman. He was a big-framed{{c|207}
