Followed by Mosé the steward and big Joe, Barry ran on deck. On the hatch were three dead or dying natives, and Warner lay upon the deck with his head against the coamings.
"Bring some lights," cried Barry to the steward, as he knelt beside the wounded man.
"I guess that lights are just what I want, young feller," said Warner faintly, with a grim smile. "That darned kanaka boy just drove his hatchet inter my back, and I reckon I haven't much lights or liver left."
Barry tried to examine the man's wound, but the American stayed him.
"Let me be, mister. I meant to do for you, and would have done it later on. But I'm wiped out and don't want to make a song. Is Jim dead?"
"No," replied Barry, "he is not dead."
"Mister, you are a darned good sort. Me and Jim meant to do for you."
"Don't
