“And it’s the only joke he ever does make, sir,” says Abram.
“Right,” growled Scudds.
“I didn’t mean no offence, sir, about your going, neither,” said Abram, respectfully. “Of course it’ll be a great advantage to have a doctor on board. You air a doctor, sir?”
“Yes,” said our stout employer, laughing till his cheeks wabbled. “I can cure anything from a frost-bite to a flea-bite; but I’m not an M.D.”
“No; of course not, sir,” says Abram, nodding his head sagely.
“I mean, sir, not a doctor of medicine.”
“Good job, too,” growled Scudds. “Yah! I hates physic!” and he looked about for somewhere to spit, ending by opening the room door, and disposing of his tobacco-juice on the mat.
“Well, then, sir,” I said, rising, “here are our first and second mates, and I’ll get together a crew of sixteen men in a few days, and meet you every morning on board.”
“My sarvice to you, sir,” said Abram, touching his forehead.
“And mine,” growled Scudds.