"Then we wont flog them. Ha! ha! ha! Please, Cravan, don't swear at them. Have some regard for their feelings in future."
One night, when Thompson had retired to bed, he was suddenly awakened by the sick-bay man, who informed him that Tom Clare was in a fit, and in a few moments he was by the side of his friend, whom he found in a state of great prostration.
"What's the matter, Tom?"
Evidently the sufferer did not know who it was that addressed him, and soon after Thompson saw the poor fellow's head fall upon his chest, and he seemed to all appearance dead.
"Take him into my cabin! I'll look after him," said the acting boatswain, and the inanimate form of poor Clare was conveyed into Thompson's cabin, where the doctor did his best to bring him to consciousness.
As the surgeon stood by the man, with his fingers on his pulse, he observed, "It's one of his old attacks, Mr. Thompson. Don't you remember he has suffered from them about this time every year?"
"God bless us. What day of the month is this, sir?"
"The sixteenth of August—sure enough it's what he used to call his wife's day. Poor fellow, he won't enjoy her society long, his constitution is too much impaired."
"Don't you think it's flogging has brought this on, sir?"
"I cannot express an opinion, Thompson," the little doctor replied; but he knew full well that the lash was the cause of the poor fellow's trouble, although he could not say so.