Two days had elapsed after my incursions upon the “wild Irishers,” during which our surgeon had kept himself closely to his cabin, when he wrote a letter on service to the captain, requesting a survey upon his self-libelled rotundity of body. The captain, according to the laws of the service, “in that case made and provided,” forwarded the letter to the port-admiral, who appointed the following day for the awful inspection. As I said before, the skipper and his first-lieutenant had laid down a scheme of a counter-plot, and they now began to put it into execution. Immediately that Dr Thompson had received his answer, he began to dose himself immoderately with tartarised antimony and other drugs, to give his round and hitherto ruddy countenance the pallor of disease. He commenced getting up his invaliding suit.
It had been a great puzzle to his brother officers, to understand what two weasan-faced mechanical-looking men, from the shore, had been doing in his cabin the greater part of the night. They did not believe, as the doctor intimated, that they were functionaries of the law, taking instructions for his last will and testament; though the astute surgeon had sent a note to Mr Farmer, the first-lieutenant, with what he thought infinite cunning, to know, in case of anything fatal happening immediately to the writer, whether his friend would prefer to have bequeathed to him the testator’s double-barrelled fowling piece, or his superb Manton’s duelling-pistols. Mr Farmer replied, “that he would very willingly take his chance of both.”
At twelve o’clock everything was ready. The survey was to take place in the captain’s cabin. Dr Thompson sends for his two assistants, and then, for the first time for three days, he emerges, leaning heavily upon both his supporters.
Can this be the jovial and rubicund doctor? Whose deadly white face is that, that peers out from under the shadow of an immense green shade? The lips are livid—the corners of the mouth drawn down—and yet there is a triumphant sneer in their very depression. The officers gather round him, he lifts up his head slowly, and then looks round and shakes it despondingly. His eyes are dreadfully bloodshot. His mess-mates, the young ones especially, begin to think that his illness is real. There is the real sympathy of condolence in the greetings of all but the hard-a-weather master, the witty purser, and the obdurate first. The invalid was apparelled in an ancient roast-beef uniform coat, bottle-green from age; the waistcoat had flaps indicative of fifty years’ antiquity, and the breeches were indescribable. He wore large blue-worsted stockings folded up outside above the knee, but carefully wrinkled and disordered over the calf of the leg, in order to conceal its healthy mass of muscle. Big as was the doctor, his clothes were all, as Shakespeare has it, “a world too big,” though we cannot finish the quotation by adding, “for his shrunk shank.” Instead of two lawyers’ clerks, the sly rogue had had two industrious snips closeted with him, for the purpose of enlarging this particular suit of clothes to the utmost.
“In the name of ten thousand decencies, doctor,” exclaimed Mr Farmer, “who made you that figure?”
“Disease,” was the palsied and sepulchral reply.
“But the clothes—the clothes—these incomprehensible clothes?”
“Are good enough to die in.”
“But I doubt,” said the purser, “whether either they or their wearer be good enough to die.”
There was a laugh, but it was not infectious as respected the occasion of it. He shook his head mournfully, and said, “The flippancy of rude health—the inconsiderate laugh of strong youth!”