Fitz gave himself an angry snatch round, and fixed his eyes frowningly upon the speaker.
“Look here,” he said, “let’s have no more of that, if you please. Have the goodness to keep your place, sir. If you don’t know that you have a gentleman on board, please to learn it now, and have the goodness to be off and take that clumsy oaf with you. I want to sleep.”
“Certainly,” said the skipper quietly, and his son gave him a wondering look. “But as I am here I may as well see to your head. It is quite time it was done again.”
“Look here,” cried Fitz, “am I to speak again? I told you to go. When I want my head bandaged again I will send you word.”
“All right, my lad,” said the skipper good-humouredly.
“All right, what?” cried Fitz. “Will you have the goodness to keep this familiar way of speaking to people of your own class!”
“Oh, certainly,” said the skipper. “Very well, then; send for me when you feel disposed to have it dressed; and I’ll tell you what, you can let Poole wait till the cool of the evening, and he can bathe it and do it then.”
“Bah!” cried the lad angrily. “Is it likely I am going to trust myself in his clumsy hands? There, stop and do it now, as I am awake. Here, stop, get some fresh cool water and hold the basin. Pish! I mean that nasty tin-bowl.”
Poole got what was necessary without a word, and then stood by while the injury was carefully bathed and bandaged, the patient not uttering a single word of thanks, but submitting with the worst of graces, and just giving his doctor a condescending nod when with a word of congratulation the latter left the cabin.
There was profound silence then, saving a click or two and a rustle as Poole put the various things away, Fitz lying back on his pillow and watching him the while, till at last he spoke, in an exacerbating way—