“Here, you sir, was that doctor, skipper, or whatever he calls himself, trained before he came to sea?”
Poole flushed and remained silent.
“Did you hear what I said, boy?” cried Fitz.
“Yes,” was the short reply, resentfully given.
“Yes, sir. Impudent scoundrel! Do you know whom you are addressing? Sir to an officer in Her Majesty’s service, whatever his rank.”
“Oh, yes, I know whom I am talking to.”
“Yes, sir, you oaf! Where are your manners? Is that fellow a surgeon?”
“No; he is captain of this ship.”
“Ship! Captain!” sneered the boy, in a contemptuous tone which made his listener writhe. “Why, it’s a trading schooner, isn’t it?”
Poole was about to speak out sharply, when a glance at the helpless condition of the speaker disarmed him, and he said quietly—