"My fee is half a guinea," said the doctor, softly, poor people who cannot afford more, mates and the like, I sometimes treat for less."
"I'll die first," howled the mate; "you won't get any money out of me."
"Very good," said the doctor, and rose to depart.
"Bring him back, Rogers," yelled the mate; "don't let him go."
But the second officer, with a strange awesome look in his eyes, was leaning back in his seat, tightly gripping the edge of the table in both hands.
"Come, come," said the doctor, cheerily—"what's this? You mustn't be ill, Rogers. I want you to nurse these other two."
The other rose slowly to his feet and eyed him with lack-lustre eyes. "Tell the third officer to take charge," he said, slowly; "and if he's to he nurse as well, he's got his hands full."
The doctor sent the boy to apprise the third officer of his responsibilities, and then stood watching the extraordinary and snakelike convolutions of Mr. Mackenzie.
"How much—did—ye say?" hissed the latter.
"Poor people," repeated the doctor, with relish, "five shillings a visit; very poor people, half a crown."