“Captain Bunnett?” he inquired sharply.
“That’s me, sir,” said the skipper.
“Your wife sent me,” said the tall man briskly. “My name’s Thompson—Dr. Thompson. She says you’ve got a case of small-pox on board which she wants me to see.”
“We’ve got a doctor,” said the skipper and mate together.
“So your wife said, but she wished me particularly to see the case,” said Dr. Thompson. “It’s also my duty as the medical officer of the port.”
“You’ve done it, George, you’ve done it,” moaned the panic-stricken skipper reproachfully.
“Well, anybody can make a mistake,” whispered the mate’ back; “an’ he can’t touch us, as it ain’t small-pox. Let him come, and we’ll lay it on to the cook. Say he made a mistake.”
“That’s the ticket,” said the skipper, and turned to assist the doctor to the deck as the mate hurried below to persuade the indignant boy to strip and go to bed.
In the midst of a breathless silence the doctor examined the patient; then, to the surprise of all, he turned to the crew and examined them one after the other.
“How long has this boy been ill?” he demanded.