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"Is he dead, surgeon?"

"Oh, doctor, he'll live—say he'll live!"

Caleb and Si had followed the senseless form of Walter to the sick bay of the warship, the Yankee youth with the blood streaming from a deep cut in his left cheek. Both were in distress for fear their comrade was seriously injured.

"Yes, he'll live, but he has had a narrow escape," was the reply of the medical man in charge of the case. "The bit of shell scraped his left temple, as you see. Had it come a little closer, it would have gone through his brain."

Walter had been placed on a swinging cot, and now his head was bound up. Before this operation was over he opened his eyes.

"Whe—where am I?" he stammered. "Wh—what hit me?"

"Praise God, he's himself again!" murmured Caleb, reverently. "I was afraid he was a goner."