With much difficulty he permitted himself to be partly carried up the ladder, and seated in all the dignity of suffering, in a chair in the fore-cabin, the two assistants standing, one on each side of him, in mute observation.
It is twelve o’clock—half-past twelve—one—two. The captain is coming on board—tell the officers—the side is manned—the boatswain pipes—and the little great man arrives, and, attended by Mr Farmer, enters the cabin. Prepared as he was for a deception, even he starts back with surprise at the figure before him.
With one hand upon a shoulder of each of his assistants, the doctor, with an asthmatical effort, rises.
“Well, doctor, how are you?”
The doctor shook his head.
“Matters have gone a great length, I see.”
Another shake, eloquent with suffering and despondency.
“I understand from my friend here” (Mr Farmer and he were friends sometimes for half an hour together), “that with Christian providence you have been making your will. Now, my dear doctor, it is true, that we have hardly been three months associated; but that time, short as it is, has given me the highest opinion of your convivial qualities, your professional skill, and the great depth of your understanding. Deep—very deep! You must not class me among the mean herd of legacy-hunters; but I would willingly have some token by which to remember so excellent a man, and an officer so able, and so unshrinking in the performance of his duties.”
“There is my tobacco-box,” said the doctor with feeble malice; “for though chewing the weed cannot cure, it can conceal a bad breath.”
The captain winced. It was a thrust with a double-edged sword. He was what we now call, an exquisite, in person, and one to whom the idea of chewing tobacco was abhorrent, whilst he was actually and distressingly troubled with the infirmity hinted at. For a moment, the suavity of his manner was destroyed, and he forgot the respect due to the dying.