“Ye feel a’ richt, do ye?” returned the doctor, ignoring George’s question. “Ye’re no’ hungry—nor thirsty, eh?”
“Not particularly,” answered George. “And yet I think I could take some breakfast, if it would not be troubling—”
“Brackfast! Hear til him; brackfast! why, mon,”—drawing out a huge, turnip-like silver watch—“it’s nearly sax o’clock p.m. Will a bite o’ dinner no’ serve ye as weel? Hech, hech,” and the queer, grumpy-looking visage of the really genial-hearted doctor beamed into a smile, as his lips uttered the strange sounds which with him passed for laughter.
Doctor Pearson’s laughter was infectious, perhaps because of its singularity. George smiled in response, and Captain Singleton smiled too; then, turning to the doctor, the latter said—
“My dinner will be served in a few minutes, doctor. If you think it would not injure your patient, I will send him in something from my table.”
“Weel,” responded the doctor with the caution characteristic of his countrymen, “I’ll no’ commit mysel’ by any positeeve statement just; I’ll wait and see, since ye’ve been so vera kind as to ask me to dine wi’ ye. But I think I may venture to say that a wee drappie o’ soup will no’ hurt the chiel. And noo, wi’ your leave, captain, I’ll just tak’ the sma’ leeberty o’ turnin’ ye oot o’ your ain cabin, as there’s been an ample suffeecency o’ conversation for the present.”
The captain laughed good-naturedly, and turned, with a friendly nod to George, to leave the cabin. Doctor Pearson also turned to go, but paused for an instant to once more feel George’s pulse, and then, with an amiable grunt of satisfaction, he also walked out, saying as he went—
“Never fash your brains, my mon, by wonderin’ whaur ye are. Ye’re in guid han’s, ye may tak’ my word for it, and in guid time, when ye’re strong eneuch to talk, you’ll be told everything. Noo lie still, and keep your ’ees open for a few minutes, and I’ll see that ye hae a decent bit of dinner sent in til ye.”
The worthy doctor was as good as his word; a substantial basin of nourishing soup, with a small quantity of fresh, white, wholesome cabin-biscuit broken into it—“soft tack” was a comparatively unknown luxury at sea in those days—and a glass of port wine being brought in to George by the captain’s steward about ten minutes later; and, having demolished these, the patient once more dropped off to sleep, and passed a comfortable night.
Three days more of Doctor Pearson’s skilful treatment sufficed to put both George and Tom upon their pins once more, and then, and not until then, Captain Singleton asked of the former an account of the circumstances which had resulted in placing them in the desperate situation in which they had been found.