“Then don’t do it,” cried Roberts warmly.
“Don’t be so peppery, my lad,” said the doctor.
“Well, I don’t want to be accused of gluttony or eating to excess.”
“Pooh! Don’t mind what he says,” said the doctor good-humouredly. “I hate excess, but it does me good to see growing boys make a hearty meal.”
“Frank Murray’s too fond of bantering, doctor,” said Roberts; and then, involuntarily passing a finger tenderly over the spots where the incipient bits of whisker had been singed off, “I don’t quite look upon myself as a growing boy.”
“Oh, don’t you?” said the doctor, rather gruffly. “I should have thought you had not done putting on inches. There, never mind Murray’s chaff. By the way, why do you keep shaving yourself down the cheeks with that finger? does the skin feel tender where you were so much scorched?”
“Yes, doctor, a little,” replied the youth innocently enough.
“H’m, yes, but that cream I gave you does good, doesn’t it?”
“Oh yes, doctor.”
“Nasty scorching you fellows all had. I quite expected to have some bad patients—burns and spear wounds. Lucky escapes, all of you. That Titely was the worst, but the way in which a good healthy sailor’s flesh heals up is wonderful. It’s just like cutting into a piece of raw native indiarubber before it has been fooled about and manufactured up with brimstone—vulcanised, as they call it. You lads ought to bear it in mind, in case you get a cut or a chop. All that’s wanted is to see that the wound is thoroughly clean and dry, and then squeeze the sides up together and the flesh adheres after the fashion of a clean cut in indiarubber. Ah, I like a good clean cut.”