“No he couldn’t. I tried him with half a glass of whiskey this morn, and he simply lapped it up. If he had been a Turk the smell of it would have turned him sick. We may fairly assume that he is, as I say, a Norwegian, and if he is I’ll get at him. I shall want you, Father Henaghan, and you, Mr. Jackson, to come with me.”
“I’ve been twice already,” said Mr. Jackson. “Do you really think it necessary for me——”
“I shan’t ask you to speak another word of ancient Greek,” said the doctor. “You needn’t do anything except stand where I put you and look pleasant.”
He took the priest and the rector, seizing each by the arm, and swept them with him along the corridor to the ward in which the injured sailor lay. He set them one on each side of the bed, and stood at the foot of it himself. The sailor stared first at the priest and next at the rector. Then he looked the doctor straight in the face and his left eyelid twitched slightly. Dr. Whitty felt almost certain that he winked; but there was clearly no reason why he should wink with any malicious intent, so he put the motion down to some nervous affection.
“Pastor,” said the doctor, in a loud, clear tone, pointing to Father Henaghan.
The sailor looked vacantly at the priest.
“Pastor,” said the doctor again, indicating Mr. Jackson, with his finger.
The sailor turned his face and looked at Mr. Jackson, but there was no sign of intelligence on his face.
“Take your choice,” said the doctor; “you can have either one or the other. We don’t want to influence you in the slightest, but you’ve got to profess a religion of some sort while you’re here, and these clergymen represent the only two kinds we have. One or other of them you must choose, otherwise the unfortunate master of this workhouse will get into trouble for not registering you. Hang it all! I don’t believe the fool knows a single word I’m saying to him.”