“Yes; I’ll give it to you, Jack, if you like.”
“Thank you. Was your father a sailor, Spicer, as well as you?”
“Yes, Jack; a sailor, every inch of him.”
“Did you ever sail with him?”
“No, he died about the time that I was born.”
Here the doctor, who was going round the wards, came up to Spicer, and asked him how he felt. “Pretty well, doctor,” said he.
“Come, we must look at your leg, my man; it will require dressing. Is it very painful?”
“Why, yes, sir; it has been very painful indeed all night.”
The hospital mates unbandaged Spicer’s leg, and took off the poultices, and I was horrified when I saw the state which his leg was in: one mass of ulceration from the middle of the thigh down to half-way below his knee, and his ankle and foot swelled twice their size, a similar inflammation extending up to his hip. The doctor compressed his lips, and looked very grave. He removed some pieces of flesh, it was then cleaned, and fresh poultices put on.
“Doctor,” said Spicer, who had watched his countenance, “they say in the hospital that you have stated that I cannot live. Now, I should wish to know your opinion myself on this subject, as I believe I am the most interested party.”