“Look here,” cried the lieutenant angrily, “I want the names of the men who played this blackguardly trick upon the poor fellow.”
“Yes, afterwards,” said the doctor. “He’s insensible, poor fellow. Here, one of you, a knife?”
Half-a-dozen jack-knives were opened and presented to the doctor, but I sprang forward.
“Don’t do that, sir, please!” I cried excitedly.
“Eh? Not cut off this absurd thing?”
“No, sir. The poor fellow went overboard to escape having the pigtail cut, and it would break his heart.”
Mr Reardon turned upon me sharply, and I anticipated a severe reproof, but he only gave me a nod.
“Carry him below,” he said. And I walked beside the men to save the poor fellow from any fresh indignity, while half-an-hour later he had had a good rubbing and was lying in hot blankets fast asleep, partly from exhaustion, partly consequent upon having had a tumbler of mixture, steaming and odorous, which the doctor had administered with his own hands.
“Not to be taken every three hours, Herrick,” he said, with a curious dry smile. “Fine mixture that, in its proper place. Know what it was?”
“It smelt like grog, sir,” I replied.