'Surgeon's mate, sir, 'e give me plaister for 'em, an' 'e says they'll soon come right, sir.'
'Very well.'
Now was there, or was there not, something strained about the expressions on the faces of the men on either side of Styles? Did they look like men smiling secretly to themselves? Laughing up their sleeves? Hornblower did not want to be an object of derision; it was bad for discipline — and it was worse for discipline if the men shared some secret unknown to their officers. He glanced sharply along the line again. Styles was standing like a block of wood, with no expression at all on his swarthy face; the black ringlets over his ears were properly combed, and no fault could be found with him. But Hornblower sensed that the recent conversation was a source of amusement to the rest of his division, and he did not like it.
After divisions he tackled Mr Low the surgeon, in the gunroom.
'Boils?' said Low. 'Of course the men have boils. Salt pork and split peas for nine weeks on end — what d'you expect but boils? Boils — gurry sores — blains — all the plagues of Egypt.'
'On their faces?'
'That's one locality for boils. You'll find out others from your own personal experience.'
'Does your mate attend to them?' persisted Hornblower.
'Of course.'
'What's he like?'