"And this lad--burned?" said the doctor, sharply. "Why, Mr Vandean! why, my dear boy, what a state you're in! Get him under an awning at once. I'll dress your face soon." Mark was quite ready to walk, but he was carried and laid down under the shelter of a sail, and in a few minutes Mr Russell was laid beside him, and the doctor went down on one knee to make a careful examination. "Very bad?" Mark heard the first lieutenant whisper. "Bad enough," replied the doctor. "Fracture, with a piece of bone resting upon the brain. We must get him on board the _Nautilus_ at once." "Dangerous?" "Pretty well." "Fatal?" "In some hands," said the doctor, importantly, "but we shall see." Mark could hardly believe it true an hour later when he was lying in a comfortable cot on board the _Nautilus_, with cool applications to his face and head, and a man told off to attend upon him--that man being Tom Fillot. The captain had been to see him, and shaken hands, thanking him for what he had done toward capturing the two schooners, the second, with Dance and Grote on board, being now only a few cables' lengths away. "We found you did not put in an appearance, Mr Vandean, so we sailed south in search of you, and a pretty dance you have led us. But you have behaved uncommonly well, my dear boy--very well, indeed." As soon as he could get a chance, Bob Howlett paid the patient a visit, and reported that the doctor had performed an operation upon Mr Russell's head, and said that he had borne it very well. "What an unlucky fellow he is," Mark cried, as he lay there in perfect peace now that he was relieved of his responsibility, and could rest. "Not half such an unlucky beggar as some one I know," grumbled Bob. "Oh, you mean me," said Mark, quietly. "That I don't," cried Bob. "I call you lucky." "Me?" "Yes; look at the fun you've had all to yourself. A regular cruise." "Fun?" "Yes, fun. Captain of the schooner; capturing another; complimented by the skipper; praised by old hooks and staples; and of course, just when I thought I was going to distinguish myself, and charged down into that dark cabin and made sure I'd captured the skipper at the point of my sword--" "Dirk," said Mark. "Well, dirk, if you like--of course it must turn out to be you. Bah! it's disgusting." "Nonsense!" "It is, I say," cried Bob, angrily. "You get all the fat and gravy of life. And now you're as good as wounded, and you'll be named in the skipper's despatch, and--but oh, what a lark!" cried Bob, bursting into a roar of laughter. "What a jolly old fifth of November guy you do look!" CHAPTER FORTY TWO. CONVALESCENCE. "Hallo, old mole!" "I'm going to give you a thoroughly good licking, Bob, as soon as I get well," said Mark, a few mornings later, on being saluted as above. "I should like to see you do it." "You shall, my dear young friend. Last night it was rat; night before owl; now it's mole."