“You look—” began the doctor staring at me. But I interrupted him angrily:
“I am not ill.”
“No. . . . You look queer.”
“Well, you see, I have been seventeen days on deck.”
“Seventeen! . . . But you must have slept.”
“I suppose I must have. I don’t know. But I’m certain that I didn’t sleep for the last forty hours.”
“Phew! . . . You will be going ashore presently I suppose?”
“As soon as ever I can. There’s no end of business waiting for me there.”
The surgeon released my hand, which he had taken while we talked, pulled out his pocket-book, wrote in it rapidly, tore out the page and offered it to me.
“I strongly advise you to get this prescription made up for yourself ashore. Unless I am much mistaken you will need it this evening.”