The surgeon stepped in front of the newcomer.
“But it shall matter to you, Mr. Jacob Bolger, Government storekeeper, jailer, overseer, or commissary's runner, or whatever your position is. And I shall see that No. 267 suffers no molestation from you.”
“Who are you, sir, to threaten me? The Governor shall hear of this when we arrive at the settlement. A pretty thing that I should be talked to like this by the ship's doctor!”
“By God, sir, I'll give you something to talk about,” and the surgeon's Welsh blood leapt to his face. Advancing to the break of the poop, he called—
“Sergeant Matthews!”
The one remaining non-commissioned officer of the diminished convict-guard at once appeared and saluted.
He was a solemn-faced, taciturn man, devoted to Clinton.
“Mr. Belton,” said the doctor, “in the serious illness of Lieutenant Clinton I now assume charge of the military guard and convicts on this ship, and as a first step to maintain proper discipline at such a critical time, I shall confine Mr. Bolger to his cabin. Sergeant, take him below and lock him in.”
Bolger collapsed at once. “I beg your pardon, doctor, for my hastiness. I did not know.... I was——”
The surgeon cut his apologies short. “Go to your cabin, sir. I shall not have you locked in, but, by heavens! if you attempt to go into Mr. Clinton's cabin I'll put you in irons, Government official though you are. I am well aware that your presence is particularly objectionable to Mrs. Clinton.”