"What makes you think that?" said I.
Pulling his old hairy cap down around his ears, and settling down for a long yarn, he said: "In the winter of 1875 I was in a ship off the Cape of Good Hope. We lost three sailors overboard—"
"I am in a hurry, Charlie, you will be too long—"
"I have had queer dreams lately, sir," he interrupted.
"Tell me some other time," said I, "I must see the Swede."
Down in the forecastle Riley was comforting Swanson in the uncertain language of the sea, while the cook held his head, eyeing me, and saying very softly, "I don't think that it is the cabbage, sir."
"What is it then," said I, "I only gave two grains of quinine to reduce his fever. Stand back, there, so that I can get a look at him. How are you now, Swanson?" As I said this, the words of the advertisement occurred to me, "Beecham's Pills are worth a guinea, though they cost but eighteen pence."
There was no bluffing with the Swede. He was sick in good earnest now. "I think I ban poisoned, Mr. Mate."
"No, Swanson, you have not been poisoned. You must be operated on, and at once."
"Begob, sir," said Riley, with a wink at me, "and sure it is myself that knows how to carve. I will be after helping you, sir."