“All this time sailing here and there,” said Mark one day, “and not done a bit of good.”
“Do you hear that, Mr Whitney?” cried Bob. “There’s gratitude, when it has been just as if we were under orders to keep at sea so as to get him and Mr Russell well again; and look at ’em now. Why, it has quite cured ’em both.”
“And their doctor has done nothing, Mr Bob Howlett?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that, sir, exactly,” said that gentleman, colouring a little. “Of course you have done them a lot of good, sir, and—”
“There, you are only floundering about, young gentleman, and making worse of it,” said the doctor, gruffly.
“Wait a bit; you will be laid by the heels one of these days, and then you will sing a very different song. But you are a wonderful deal better, Vandean, and I congratulate you. I shall not have to ask for you to be sent home.”
“Oh yes, I’m much better, sir,” cried Mark.
“Well, don’t talk as if you were afraid I was going to order you pills and draught. I’ve done with you, but you had better be careful Mr Russell can go on without me now. As for Mr Howlett here—well, we’ll wait for that.”
He gave Bob a curious look and strolled away, leaving that gentleman with his face screwed up in a way which made Mark burst out laughing.
“Oh yes, it’s all very well for you to grin,” grumbled Bob; “you’re out of the wood. He don’t like me, and you see if he doesn’t serve me out first chance he gets.”