“That’s right,” cried Steve, “laugh at me; I deserve it;” and at that moment he wished that he was a little child again, so that he could go and hide himself away, and relieve his feelings by crying fit to break his heart. But he did not say to himself “cry”; he put it as “blubber like a great girl.”
“Be quiet, my lad; and, believe me, I can feel for you and want to help you. I’m a doctor, and I talked metaphorically, as, of course, you know. By moral surgery I meant one brave bit of mastery over self, and cutting the trouble right out. There’s no hiding the fact; you, as a gentleman’s son, ought not to have been found fighting with the ship’s boy, and under such ludicrous circumstances; now, ought you?”
“No, I suppose not,” replied Steve; “but—”
“Never mind the ‘buts,’ my lad. You own that you are in the wrong?”
“Yes.”
“Then go and wash your face and brush all that fluff off your jacket. Then pluck up, and like a man go in to the captain; keep cool—you’ll be cooler by that time—and tell him exactly how it all was; say you are sorry, and— Don’t keep on shaking your head like that, sir; you’ll be doing some injury to your spinal column.”
“But I can’t go and tell him that, after the way in which he looked and spoke to me.”
“Yes, you can, sir.”
“No.”
“There you go, shaking your head again. Tell him you were in the wrong.”