“Come, come, captain,” said the doctor good-humouredly as he took off his straw hat and wiped his moist brow, for he too had been as busy as the rest, “you have had your innings; I want to have mine. You, Rodney, you never thought to see that the quinine bottle in the little leather medicine chest was re-filled.”
“Rammed it in tight, uncle,” said the boy triumphantly, “and saw to all the other bottles.”
“Then,” said the doctor, “we’ll say all is ready. Only look here, my lads; I’ll give you half-an-hour before we start, so you had better go down below and have some more breakfast, for it will be a good many hours before we have another meal.”
No one stirred.
“Well,” said the doctor impatiently, “did you hear what I said?”
This time a low murmur ran through the crew, and Joe Cross took a step forward and touched his hat.
“Beg pardon, sir,” he said; “the lads’ respects, and they says they’re all tight, cargo well stowed.”
“Then you don’t want the extra half-hour?” said the doctor, looking at his watch. “So there’s nothing to do, then, my dear Count, and you, Captain Chubb, but for us to shake hands and say good-bye.”
“Where’s your guide?” grunted the captain.
“Ah, where’s our guide?” said the doctor, looking in the direction of the Spanish three-master. “He said at the turn of the tide. I ought to have asked him to come here to breakfast.”