“If you plaize, sor,” he said, pulling his forelock, “the docthor would loike to say yez in the sick bay.”
“Indeed, Macan,” I cried. “Do you know what he wants me for?”
“The jintleman we tuk off the wrack’s rekivered his sinses, an’ none ov us, sure, can under-constubble his furrin lingo barrin’ yersilf, sor. So, the docther wants ye fur to say what he’s jabberin’ about.”
“All right,” said I, bolting as quickly as I could a piece of “plum duff” which Dobbs had just brought me. “Tell the doctor I’m coming.”
“By jingo, talk of the devil!” observed Larkyns, bursting into a laugh as Macan turned to go away. “Why, I was only just talking of that blessed Irish marine a minute ago, and here he has come on the scene in person, with his rum brogue.”
“Hush!” I said. “He’ll hear you.”
“No matter if he does,” rejoined Larkyns. “I suppose he knows he has got the Cork brogue strong enough to hang a cat-block from. Besides, he won’t mind what I say.”
“Faix, that’s thrue for yez, sor,” muttered the corporal, who caught this remark as he was going out of the gunroom door, his ears being as sharp as those of a fox. “Begorrah, it’s moighty little onyone ivver does mind what ye says at all, at all!”
With which doubtful compliment, capable of a double construction, Corporal Macan marched on in front of me, holding his head very erect and with a broad grin on his face, as if conscious of carrying off the honours of the war, towards Dr Nettleby’s sanctum on the main deck.
Here, on entering, I noticed the Spaniard sitting up in one of the doctor’s easy chairs.