“My thanks to Mr. Hornblower.”
“Aye aye, sir. Another glass, sir?”
“Yes.”
That was better. Later on there were a whole succession of noises which he found hard to explain to himself: the tramp of booted feet on the deck, shouted orders, oars and more oars rowing alongside. Then there were steps outside his cabin door and Clive, the surgeon, entered, ushering in a stranger, a skinny, whitehaired man with twinkling blue eyes.
“I’m Sankey, surgeon of the naval hospital ashore,” he announced. “I’ve come to take you where you’ll be more comfortable.”
“I don’t want to leave the ship,” said Bush.
“In the service,” said Sankey, with professional cheerfulness, “you should have learned that it is the rule always to have to do what you don’t want to do.”
He turned back the sheet and contemplated Bush’s bandaged form.
“Pardon this liberty,” he said, still hatefully cheerful, “but I have to sign a receipt for you—I trust you’ve never signed a receipt for ship’s stores without examining into their condition, lieutenant.”
“Damn you to hell!” said Bush.