“No; but you must get the barber to touch you up. One side of your curly wig is singed right off, and the other’s fairly long.”
“I don’t care,” cried Murray carelessly. “I’m not going to bother about anything. Let’s go on deck and see what they’re about.”
Roberts was quite willing, and the first man they encountered was the able-seaman Titely.
“Why, hallo!” cried Murray. “I expected you’d be in hospital.”
“Me, sir! What for?”
“Your wound.”
“That warn’t a wound, sir; only a snick. The doctor put a couple o’ stitches in it, and then he made a sorter star with strips o’ stick-jack plaister. My belt got the worst of it, and jest look at my hair, sir. Sam Mason scissored off one side; the fire did the other. Looks nice and cool, don’t it?”
The man took off his new straw hat and held his head first on one side and then the other for inspection.
“Why, you look like a Turk, Titely,” said Murray.
“Yes, I do, sir, don’t I? Old Sam Mason’s clipping away still. The other chaps liked mine so that they wanted theirs done the same. It’s prime, sir, for this here climate.”