“Oh, dear, what shall I do?” I ejaculated as I dragged on my boots, which had not been improved by their dip in the sea and subsequent roasting on top of a hot iron stove, although I noticed they had been nicely polished by the corporal. “I feel hungry enough to ‘eat a horse and chase the rider,’ as I heard a fellow say the other day!”
“Ye must fale betther, sor, if you’re hoongry,” observed Macan on my completing my toilet and donning my cap again. “That’s a raal good sign whin ye’re inclined fur to ate—at laste that’s what the docther sez.”
“Providing you’ve got something to eat!” I rejoined ruefully, for I knew there wouldn’t be much left if the gunroom fellows had cleared out. “What did Doctor Nettleby say was the matter with me, eh?”
“He s’id ye wor a comet, sor.”
“A comet?” I repeated, laughing. “You’re making a mistake, corporal.”
“The divil a ha’porth, sor. He called ye that same.”
“Nonsense, man!” I said. “The doctor made use of some medical term, probably, which you don’t understand.”
“Mebbe, sor, for I’m no scholard, worse luck!” replied the corporal, unconvinced. “The docther do sometime bring out one of them outlandish wurrds that nayther the divvil nor Father Murphy, more power to him! could make out at all at all; but, whin ye dhropped down this afthernoon on the dick alongside o’ yer chist, an’ I picked ye up, he says, sez he, ye was ayther a ‘comet,’ or in a ‘comet house,’ or somethin’ loike that, I’ll take me oath wid me dyin’ breath, though what the divvil he manes, I’m sure I can’t say, sor!”
“Oh, I see now!” I exclaimed, a light suddenly flashing on me as to his meaning. “I must have fainted away and the doctor told you I was in a comatose state, eh?”
“An’ isn’t that, sure, a comet, sor, as I tould ye!” cried the Irishman, triumphantly. “Hullo, here’s Peters, the cap’en’s stooard dodgin’ about the gangway. I wondther what he’s afther?”