Chapter Nine.
A mon frae the North.
Poole looked as solemn and calm as a judge as he raised the soup-basin and listened to his patient’s words, while all at once a suspicious thought glanced through Fitz’s brain, and he looked at the lad quickly and felt relieved, for no one could have imagined from the grave, stolid face before him that mirth like so much soda-water was bubbling and twinkling as it effervesced all through the being of the skipper’s son.
“I couldn’t have held it in any longer,” said Poole to himself, with a sigh of relief, for just then the door clicked and the Camel’s head came slowly in with the red eyes glowing and watchful.
Then seeing that the meal was ended he came right in, and took basin and spoon from Poole as if they were his own special property.
“Feel better, laddie?” he said, with a grin at the patient.
“Oh yes, thank you, cook,” was the genial reply. “Capital soup.”
“Ay,” said the Camel seriously, “and ye’ll just take the same dose every morning at twa bells till you feel as if you can eat salt-junk like a mon. Ah weel, ah weel! They make a fine flather about doctors and their stuff, but ye mind me there isn’t another as can do a sick mon sae much good as the cook.”