The captain took a turn up and down the bridge.
Then returning to the charge:
"Is there any hygienic measure you could suggest for the removal of this ulcer plague?" he roared.
"Oh, yes, the place where the sick lie is as hot and stuffy as the stoke-hole. I'd like screen-berths on deck."
"Well, well, have my quarter-deck by all means!"
The commander was talking sarcastically now, of course.
But the surgeon's chance had come.
"Thank you, sir," he cried, laughing in spite of himself. Then he wheeled, and was down below before Flint had time to utter another word.
Now, the little man dearly loved his quarter-deck. He was king there; a sea-king and monarch of all he surveyed. Well, he was in the habit of taking a sleep-siesta every afternoon, as soon as luncheon was over. And this was the surgeon's time. He got the carpenter and his mate to remove their shoes, and put up the screen-berths and hang the hammocks as silently as moles work. Then the worst cases were got up and put to bed.
It was really very nice for them, because they could look at the blue sparkling sea, get fresh air, and watch everything that went on around them. When the skipper came on deck, he was fain to catch hold of a stay to prevent himself from falling. So at least the quarter-master said. But he himself had given the order, and as the surgeon had obeyed it, nothing could now be done.