“Hush,” he exclaimed, “here comes Roly Poly and Loop, at last.”
“Oh, massa!” cried the black, as he rubbed his sleepy eyes with one hand, while carrying the basin of water with the other—“Sockin’ doin’s! Sockin’ doin’s! Me was takin’ bit of nap, and heard nuttin. But who’d o’ ebber tort ob such obstroplousness.”
“Hold your tongue, Roly Poly,” said the surgeon, as he proceeded to cleanse, to dress, and bind up the wounds. “Hold your tongue, and bring the basin nearer I can’t reach it, don’t you see.”
“Yes, massa, me see berry well,” replied the fat cook, heedless of the injunction he had heard. “Sorry for poor Massa Hearty; him look done to a turn, poor fellar. Him nebber eat no more puddin’; no more soup; no more meat; no more nuttin, as Roly Poly cooks so boofliful. Sorry for him.”
“Hold your tongue, sir, directly,” exclaimed the doctor, with more emphasis.
“Yes, massa,” responded Roly Poly, and in a moment afterwards recommenced. “Massa Hearty, him berry good man. Him eat ebry thin’ me cook, and ax no ’pertinent questions. Nebber turn up him nose when him find bacca in him soup, or lump o’ soap in him puddin’. Sorry for him, poor fellar.”
“Will you hold your tongue, sir?” said Doctor Tourniquet, angrily, “and help to carry the patient to his hammock. Talk to him on your peril, sir. He requires rest, don’t you see.”
“Yes, massa,” he replied, assisting to support the wounded man; but he had not proceeded a yard before his voice was heard running on as fast as ever. “Wo’n’t say word more. Hate a fellar as can’t hold him tongue when him told. Al’ays talkee, talkee. Mornin’ till night him foolis tongue nebber hab no peace. He go talkee, talkee, to eb’ry body; foolis’ fellar! Poor man, him want rest; nebber mind, him not hold him tongue bit more. Hate a fellar as can’t hold him tongue when him told.” And so he continued till he left old Hearty in his hammock.
The next person the doctor approached was lying on his back motionless. A brief inspection seemed sufficient. He shook his head and passed on towards a man who was supporting his back against the mast. His face was pale, and his look haggard, and he seemed trying with a handkerchief to stop the blood that was oozing from his side.
“Not much hurt, I hope?” was Doctor Tourniquet’s first inquiry.