"Look here, my man," said Terence authoritatively, addressing the "poultice-slapper," otherwise the sick-berth attendant, "you'll please fetch the surgeon on duty—and be quick about it."
There was something in Aubyn's tone that caused the man to wonder whether, after all, there had been a mistake. He was one who was disinclined to take any risks in the matter. He hurried off, striving to recollect, as he went, what he had said to the unknown patient, and whether he had used indiscreet language to one who might really be a commissioned officer.
The doctor arrived, tardily. Although the circumstances had been explained to him, he, too, had his doubts. Patients suffering from shock were apt to be light-headed upon recovering consciousness.
He was a little, round-faced man, with a shiny pate surmounted by a tonsure-like ring of jet black hair. War had dealt kindly with him. Formerly a country medical practitioner in a poor district, having great difficulty in making both ends meet, he had taken advantage of the Admiralty regulations for the entry of Temporary Surgeons. With free quarters, a home billet, and a comfortable rate of pay, he was now "having the time of his life."
He lacked the general brusqueness of naval doctors when dealing with men. He was eminently a doctor; as a naval officer he made an indifferent show.
He was sympathetic as he questioned Aubyn, and although he observed him narrowly he saw no sign that would be bound to betray to a medical man any symptoms of lunacy.
"You are well enough to get up," he said at length. "Get your things on."
Somewhat disdainfully Terence clothed himself in the garments provided—rough underclothing and an ugly dressing-gown, arrangements that My Lords think fit to provide for the lower-deck patients.
"Fit as a fiddle," remarked the doctor.
"Fit for a good dinner, anyhow," added Terence, who was feeling desperately hungry—the craving for food accentuated by the fact that one of the patients had just been given some roast chicken.