Chapter Thirty Nine.
The Doctor’s Dose.
“Look here, Denham,” said the doctor; “you’re an ill-tempered, ungrateful, soured, discontented young beggar. You deserve to surfer.—And as for you, sir,” he continued, turning to me, “you’re not much better.”
That was when we were what the doctor called convalescent—that is to say, it was about a fortnight after our terrible experience in the old mine-shaft, and undoubtedly fast approaching the time when we might return to duty.
“Anything else, sir?” said Denham sharply.
I said nothing, but I winced.
“I dare say I could find a few more adjectives to illustrate your character, sir,” said the doctor rather pompously; “but I think that will do.”
“So do I, sir,” said Denham; “but let me tell you that you don’t allow for our having to lie helpless here fretting our very hearts out because we can’t join the ranks.”
“There you go again, sir,” cried the doctor. “Always grumbling. Look at you both; wounds healing up.”