“What had I better do with it?” he asked.
“Well, if it was my toe, sir,” said Joe regarding it respectfully, “I should stick it in a basin o’ boiling water and keep it there as long as I could bear it.”
“You’re a fool,” said the skipper, briefly. “What do you think of it, Ben? I don’t think it’s broken.”
The old seaman scratched his head. “Well, if it belonged to me,” he said, slowly, “there’s some ointment down the fo’c’s’le which the cook ’ad for sore eyes. I should just put some o’ that on. It looks good stuff.”
The skipper, summarising the chief points in Ben’s character, which, owing principally to the poverty of the English language, bore a remarkable likeness to Joe’s and the mate’s, took his sock and boot in his hand, and gaining the deck limped painfully to the cabin.
The foot was so painful after tea that he could hardly bear his slipper on, and he went ashore in his working clothes to the chemist’s, preparatory to fitting himself out for Liston Street. The chemist, leaning over the counter, was inclined to take a serious view of it, and shaking his head with much solemnity, prepared a bottle of medicine, a bottle of lotion and a box of ointment.
“Let me see it again as soon as you’ve finished the medicine,” he said, as he handed the articles over the counter.
Flower promised, and hobbling towards the door turned into the street. Then the amiable air which he had worn in the shop gave way to one of unseemly hauteur as he saw Fraser hurrying towards him.
“Look out,” cried the latter, warningly.
The skipper favoured him with a baleful stare.