“Let me see,” said Mr Frewen, seriously, and he felt Walters’ pulse. “Let me look at your tongue, sir,” he continued; “no, no, not the tip. Out with it. Hah! And so you had the heart to drag this poor fellow out of his bed, Dale, when he was as weak as a baby?”
“Why, I could hardly hold him, sir,” I protested. “He’s stronger than I am, only I got him down and sat upon him.”
“Sat upon him—got him down! Why, you might have killed him.”
“I didn’t think he was bad, sir,” I said. “You should have seen him a little while ago.”
“Oh!” groaned Walters, piteously, and he lowered the lids of his eyes, and then let them wander feebly about the cabin.
“He’s looking for his breeches,” said the doctor, changing his tone. “There, dress yourself, you cowardly sham!” he cried. “A great strong healthy lad like you, who has been to sea for eighteen months, to lay up like a sickly weak girl. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
Walters opened his eyes widely and stared.
“Dale ought to have tugged you out a couple of days ago, and given you a bucket of water. There, nothing whatever’s the matter with him, Brymer. Come along, and I’ll report the case to the captain.”
“Well, to see the way he was showing fight,” said the mate, “didn’t seem to me like being weak.”
“Weak? Pish! You did quite right, Dale. I’m sympathetic enough with any poor fellow who is really bad, but if there is anything that raises my dander it’s a cowardly pitiful fellow who gives up for nothing. Look here, sir, if you’re not on deck in a quarter of an hour, I shall suggest strong measures to the captain in answer to his order to come down and see how you were.”