“Why, doctor, you don’t mean to say that you do not understand where we are going?”
“I mean to say I do know, sir—away from the swampy exhalations and black fevers of the horrible district where we have been cruising, and out upon the high seas.”
“Yes, to cross them, doctor,” said the lieutenant drily. “We are going to leave the black fevers behind, but in all probability to encounter the yellow.”
“What!” cried the doctor. “I did not understand—”
“What the captain said? Well, I did, sir. The skipper has only just now been vowing to me that he will never rest until he has run down that slaver.”
“Ah! Yes, I understand that,” said the doctor. “Then that means—?”
“A long stern chase through the West Indian Islands, and perhaps in and out and along the coasts of the Southern American States—wherever, in fact, the plantations are worked by slaves whose supplies are kept up by traders such as the scoundrel who cheated us into a run up that river where his schooner was lying. Why, doctor, it seems to me that we are only going out of the frying-pan into the fire.”
“Dear me, yes,” said the doctor. “You are quite right. Then under these circumstances, Mr Roberts,” he continued, turning sharply round upon the midshipman, “the sooner you commence your treatment the better.”
“But really, sir,” began Roberts, who looked so taken aback that his messmate had hard work to contain himself and master the outburst of laughter that was ready to explode.
“Don’t argue, Mr Roberts,” said the doctor importantly. “I do not know how you find him in your dealings, Anderson,” he continued, “but as a patient I must say that of all the argumentative, self-willed young men I ever encountered Mr Roberts carries off the palm.”