“Yes,” cried Rodd, stamping excitedly about the cabin; “where are your proofs?”
“Proofs?” said the skipper. “I d’know. Yes, I do. You ask the Count to his face, and his boy with him, whether what I say aren’t true.”
“Yes,” cried the doctor. “Go on deck, and take that confounded speaking trumpet of yours. Hail the brig, and ask the Count to come on board.”
“Yes—with his son!” stormed Rodd. “How can I? They went off this afternoon on some game or another, and haven’t been in sight since.”
“Hah!” said the doctor, fanning himself with one hand, wiping his face with the other, and then shaking his bandanna silk handkerchief up and down to try and get cool. “There, I am not going to be in a passion, Rodney. I am not going to say angry words to you, Chubb, for you believe all this, while I—I—I can’t believe it. The Count is too grand a gentleman to have made a—a—what you said, of me. But I will have this matter cleared up, and you will have to apologise to me and the Count.”
“And to Viscount Morny des Saix,” cried Rodd.
“Yes, my boy; exactly,” said the doctor; and then to the skipper—“If you are wrong!”
Saying this, he literally stamped out of the cabin.
“Where are you going, uncle?” cried Rodd, following.
“Up on deck, my boy,” cried the doctor, without turning his head. “I feel like a furnace, and if I speak any more words they’ll be like the skipper said—red-hot.”