“Our two new middies, eh? Well, shall you want me to-morrow?”
He looked at me as he spoke.
“Want you, sir!” I replied. “Are you one of the mates?”
“Every man’s mate when he’s on his back,” was the laughing reply. “I’m the doctor.”
“Oh!” I cried, catching his meaning, “I hope not, sir, unless it’s very rough, but I think I can stand it.”
“So do a good many folks,” he continued. “Morning.”
This was to a big, heavy-looking gentleman of about eight-and-twenty, who came up just then and shook hands with the doctor, holding on to him it seemed to me in a weak, helpless, amiable fashion, as if he was so glad he had found a friend that he didn’t like to let go.
“Good—good-morning, doctor,” he said, and as he spoke, I felt as if I must laugh, for his voice was a regular high-pitched squeak, and it sounded so queer coming from a big, stoutish, smooth-faced man of six feet high.
Walters looked at me with a grin.
“Oh, here’s a Tommy soft,” he whispered.