“I’m beginning to think the doctor was right, Gnat,” said Barkins one morning.
“What about?” I said.
“My wound; I don’t think the knife was poisoned.”
“Why, of course it wasn’t; you fancied it all.”
“Well, I couldn’t help that, could I? You wait till you get your wound, and then see how you’ll begin to fancy all sorts of things. I say, though, Smithy’s getting right pretty quick. The doctor’s pitched him over. I should have sent him back to his duty before, if I’d been old Physic. He was all right yesterday.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he was so nasty tempered. Nothing was good enough for him.”
“Oh, come, I like that,” cried Smith, who overheard him. “Why, I was as patient as could be; I appeal to the Poet. Did I ever go fussing about telling people I was wounded by a poisoned knife?”
“No,” I said; “you were both magnificent specimens of brave young midshipmen, and behaved splendidly.”
“Oh, did we?” cried Barkins. “Look here, Blacksmith, we’ll remember this, and as soon as we’re strong enough we’ll punch his head.”