“But that sounds as if you—that is to say—I—I—You don’t mean yourself, sir?” said Roberts, in a stammering, half-confused way.
“Not mean myself, sir?” said the doctor angrily. “Why, who else could I mean?”
“That’s what puzzled me, sir,” said Roberts, staring. “Frank Murray and I have always thought—”
“Here, I say,” cried Murray, laughing and enjoying the verbal engagement that had sprung up like a squall in the tropics, “don’t you begin dragging me into the discussion.”
“Exactly! Certainly not,” cried the doctor hotly. “If there is any need for it I can tackle Master Murray afterwards. I am dealing with you, sir. You gave me to understand that you did not consider I was the most hard-worked man in the ship.”
“Very well then,” cried Roberts warmly, “if you will have it that way, I don’t.”
“Oh! Indeed!” said the doctor angrily. “Then what about the last few days, when I am suddenly brought face to face with a score of wounded men, and with no one to help me but a surgeon’s mate or dresser who is as stupid as men are made?”
“Wounded, sir?” said Roberts.
“Yes, sir, wounded. Burned, if you like it better. Singed and scorched. It all comes under the broad term of casualties, does it not?”
“I suppose so, sir,” said Roberts sulkily.