The mission skipper was, however, equal to the occasion. He sponged the wound clean; put a couple of stitches in it with sailor-like neatness—whether with surgeon-like exactness we cannot tell—drew the edges of the wound still more closely together by means of strips of sticking plaster; applied lint and bandages, and, finally, did up our skipper’s fist in a manner that seemed quite artistic to the observant men around him.
“A regular boxin’-glove,” exclaimed David, hitting the operator a gentle tap on the nose with it.
“Thank ’ee, friend,” said the amateur surgeon, as he proceeded to re-stow his materials in the medicine chest; “you know that the Fishermen’s Mission never asks a rap for its services, but neither does it expect to receive a rap without asking. Come, David, you mustn’t flourish it about like that. We all know you’re a plucky fellow, but it’ll never splice properly if you go on so.”
“Hold on, Mr Missionary!” cried Gunter, as the lid of the chest was being closed, “don’t shut up yet. I wants some o’ your doctor’s stuff.”
“All right my hearty! What do you want?”
“He wants a pair o’ eye-glasses,” cried Billy, whose heart was comforted, and whose spirits were raised by the success of the operation on his father’s hand; “you see he’s so short-sighted that he can’t see no good in nobody but his-self.”
“Shut up, you young catfish! See here,” said Gunter, stretching out his wrists, which were red and much swollen.
“Oh! I can give you something for that;” so saying the skipper supplied the fisherman with a little ointment, and then, going to a cupboard, produced a pair of worsted cuffs. “You rub ’em well with that first,” he said, “an’ then wear the cuffs.”
“He’ll want more cuffs than that,” said Billy.
“I think not my boy,” said the skipper, with a benignant look, as he stooped to lock the chest. “When these are worn-out he can have more.”