“But your wound?” said Roberts.
“Don’t talk about it, sir, or I shall be put upon the sick list, and it’s quite hot enough without a fellow being shut up below. Noo canvas trousis, sir. Look prime, don’t they?”
“But, Titely,” cried Murray, “surely you ought to be on the sick list?”
“I say, please don’t say such a word,” whispered the man, looking sharply round. “You’ll be having the skipper and Mr Anderson hearing on you. I ain’t no wuss than my messmates.”
“No, I suppose not,” said Roberts, “but—why, they seem to be all on deck.”
“Course they are, sir,” said the man, grinning. “There’s nowt the matter with them but noo shirts and trousis, and they allers do chafe a bit.”
Murray laughed.
“But you ought to be on the sick list.”
“Oh, I say, sir, please don’t! How would you young gentlemen like to be laid aside?”
“But what does the doctor say? Didn’t he tell you that you ought to go into the sick bay?”