“Captain Hap, I am quite well now—as you see. I must speak next Sunday.”
“Call it Sunday arter,” suggested Captain Hap.
“It was only a scratch on the head—wasn’t it, Cap’n? And this cold. It is a bad cold.”
“For a cold, yes, sir; quite a cold. You see, it anchored onto your lungs; there air folks that call such colds inflammation. That there cut on the head was a beautiful cut, sir; it healed as healthy as a collie dog’s, or a year-old baby’s. We’ll have you round, now, sir, before you can say Cap’n Hap!”
“Cap’n Hap?”
“Well, sir?”
“You’ve done something for me—I don’t know just what; whether it’s my life that’s saved, or only a big doctor’s bill.”
“Ask Mrs. Granite, sir, and that there handy girl of hers; we’re all in it. You kept the whole crew on deck for a few days. You was a sick man—for a spell.”
“Captain, I am a well man now; and there’s one thing I will know. I’ve asked you before. I’ve asked when I was out of my head, and I’ve asked when I was in it, and I’ve never got an answer yet. Now I’m going to have it.”