“And pray what for, sir?”
“To do good to people.”
“What? A doctor do good! Rubbish! Never did me a bit of good.”
“Oh, but they do, uncle.”
“Never, sir. That Liss has pretty well poisoned me over and over again.”
“Oh, uncle, what a—”
“You say that if you dare, sir,” cried the old admiral, bringing his hand down bang upon the table, and making the glasses dance. “It’s the truth. Always made my gout worse. Colchicum—colchicum—colchicum—and the pain awful. Doctors are an absurd new invention, and of no use whatever.”
“Why, you always have a doctor on board ship.”
“Surgeon, you young dog, surgeon. Doctor! Bah! Hang all doctors! A surgeon is of some use in action, cutting, and splicing, and fishing a poor fellow’s limbs; but a doctor—”
At that moment a rubicund butler opened the dining-room door, and stood back for some one to enter.