"Leave him to me," replied Trevorrick, picking up his hat. "Stand by in case Chamfer wants to sit up and take nourishment. If he does, give him some more of this."
He pointed to a bottle containing chloroform and ether.
Pengelly nodded. He was on the point of inquiring how his partner could explain Chamfer's presence to the crew, but thought better of it.
Presently, Trevorrick returned humming one of the latest music-hall ditties.
"That's that," he remarked. "The fellow went off like a lamb. Pitched him a yarn that his master was going down to Falmouth with us in the launch, and that he was to pick him up by telephonic orders to-morrow or possibly the day after at Penzance. Now, Pengelly, sit down and write. Make out a medical certificate to the effect that 'Mr. Jasper Chamfer is at present under my care, suffering from '—what shall we say?—' from influenza.' Put any old signature, with M.R.C.P. after it. We'll post it on to Devonport Dockyard. They won't worry to look up the doctor's name in the Medical Directory."
"How do we explain this to the men?" asked Pengelly, pointing to the motionless figure on the coco-matting.
"Send up Barnard," was Trevorrick's only rejoinder.
Presently the bo'sun—formerly foreman—came hurrying up. His eyes bulged as he caught sight of the unconscious representative of My Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty.
"Do you know this man, Barnard?" demanded Trevorrick.
"Ay, ay, sir; 'tis th' inspector. Chamfer's his name."