The Whim and the Orchid were still at grips—or rather were it more correct to say the Orchid was in the Whim's grip. Lines had been passed through the chocks of each, sails had been hauled down, and both yachts rode inertly side by side.
The part of our crew that had stayed behind to attend these matters now came over the rail like monkeys, grinning broadly and crowding up to shake hands with me—a wholly uncalled for proceeding which charmed me, nevertheless.
"Lie on your face," I heard Monsieur saying to the big black. He had become excessively busy and his fingers were feeling everywhere over the man's cranium, yet as tenderly as a woman's. "What struck you?" he asked.
"I've told you he can't talk," Tommy, who was also kneeling by him, explained.
"And I did not ask you," the professor snapped. "What if he can not! May I not see him make the effort?"
"But what's the use of having the poor beggar make the effort when you know he can't put it over? Why not get down to cases and cure him, instead of monkeying?"
"Down to cases! Cure him!" Monsieur sputtered. "How great a surgeon are you to direct me in this impertinent manner?"
Really, he was quite a great deal put out.
"You fellows cut it," I interposed. "While you're squabbling the chap might click it, and then what?"
"I'm not squabbling," Tommy looked up earnestly. "I'm only saying it's a rotten shame to put a blessé through a lot of unnecessary paces that hurt him, and I stick to it! But go ahead, professor!"