In half an hour he was aroused by a shout, and went on deck. His men were tumbling out of the forecastle; stewards, cooks, and guests were scrambling forward, and a glance down from the head of the steps showed Bill the cause. Miss Mayhew lay prone on the deck, the scissors still gripped in her small hand, but the points driven into her side, and a pool of blood drifting down to the scuppers from the wound. Bill jumped clear of every step, and, landing beside her, picked her up. She was unconscious, and her eyes were closed. It took an effort of strength, but he drew the scissors out of the wound, and looked helplessly into the face of the doctor. "What happened?" asked the latter. "Well, never mind what happened. She has fallen down the stairs and wounded herself with her scissors. Carry her aft. We must stop this effusion of blood. Heavens"--he looked at the deck--"she has bled a quart already. Aft with her quickly." Bill carried the limp and bleeding form back to the cabin, and, having laid it gently on the bed in her stateroom, was moved to go. He was sailing master; the agonized father was there, the doctor, a member of the family and acting the part; the doctor's wife, a motherly and practical old lady, and a group of quiet, gentlemanly, and questioning rivals, whom Bill had no love for and who invited their own destruction by the looks they gave him. Bill went to the bridge, called his mate, then, capturing the steward on his way forward to the galley, ordered him to report, as he valued his life, on the condition of the sick girl. The steward promised, and Bill waited on the bridge. The steward went aft, and Bill watched him come up on the run and race forward. Bill again cleared the bridge stairs at a jump, and met him. "Dying, captain," gasped the steward. "Dying from loss of blood." Bill went aft--he never remembered whether he walked or ran--and bolted down the stairs, shoving aside the small Arsdale, the big Muggins, the athletic Parsons, and even the gentlemanly Elkins, all of them white in the face, as they hovered near the stateroom door, and burst into the room, where the grief-stricken father, the anxious doctor, and the weeping Mrs. Calkins hovered over the quiet, unconscious form on the bed. The rivals followed him in, but did not attempt to get between him and the girl. The doctor looked around at them, while Bill leaned over and raised the girl's head in the palm of his hand. He choked, but did not speak. "Nothing but transfusion of blood will save her," said Doctor Calkins. "Who will volunteer?" "I will," stuttered young Arsdale. "You won't do, young man," said the doctor, coldly. "You're not big enough, and need all the blood you have for yourself." "Then I'm the man," said Muggins, the author. "Heavens, what an experience! What a story I can make of it!"