"Yes, I know that. I suppose I can't help being so. I suppose freaks are mostly always good-hearted. But, sir," he added coolly, "you won't turn out to-day. You may keep your mind perfectly easy. I will see the sick."
The doctor laughed aloud at the conceit of the lad.
An hour afterwards, with an improvised crutch under his arm and his bathing drawers on, McTavish was forward on the upper deck, with a man playing the sea-hose on him and his poor swollen ankle. There were forward also the middies, and one or two of the ward-room officers, all enjoying the same healthy fun. When stripped this marvellous athlete, who three years ago, when only twenty years of age and still a student, had wrestled with and overthrown a champion, was greatly admired. And though on that day the ankle was considerably swollen he put up his 80 lb. dumb-bells just as usual.
He put Kep himself under training, and the boy began to grow from the first fortnight thereof, though he was not tall.
His father, however, had taught him swordmanship, and at this work he could beat every gun-room officer.
There was one man forward, namely Jack Stormalong, Kep's friend, the gunner, who was almost as tall and well-developed as the sailor-surgeon, who saw him stripped once, and felt his muscles.
"What arms and chest and legs for broadsword exercise à la Scottice," said the doctor.
"Be they, sir?"
"By St. Andrew, they are, Stormalong. You're good with the cutlass, I hear."
"Fair."