My father’s voice changed ominously. “Is you listenin’, zur?” he asked.
“Sick, is she?” said the doctor. “Fifteen, ten. I’ve got you, Jagger, sure ... ’Tis no fit night for a man to go ashore ... Fifteen, ten, did I say? and one for his nibs ... Go fetch her aboard, man ... And two for his heels——”
My father laid his hand over the doctor’s cards. “Was you sayin’,” he asked, “t’ fetch her aboard?”
“The doctor struck the hand away.
“Was you sayin’,” my father quietly persisted, “t’ fetch her aboard?”
I knew my father for a man of temper; and, now, I wondered that his patience lasted.
“Damme!” the doctor burst out. “Think I’m going ashore in this weather? If you want me to see her now, go fetch her aboard.”
My father coughed—then fingered the neck-band of his shirt.
“I wants t’ get this here clear in my mind,” he said, slowly. “Is you askin’ me t’ fetch that sick woman aboard this here ship?”
The doctor leaned over the table to spit.