“Very good,” said the skipper again. “But you’ll hurry up with the nurses, sir!”
He stood in a state of bewilderment until the doctor was out of sight, and then, with a heavy sigh, took his coat off and set to work.
He and the mate, after warning off the men who had come down to work, spent all the morning in sponging their crew, waiting with an impatience born of fatigue for the rash to come out. This impatience was shared by the crew, the state of mind of the cook after the fifth sponging calling for severe rebuke on the part of the skipper.
“I wish the nurses ’ud come, George,” he said, as they sat on the deck panting after their exertions; “this is a pretty mess if you like.”
“Seems like a judgment,” said the mate wearily.
“Halloa, there,” came a voice from the quay.
Both men turned and looked up at the speaker.
“Halloa,” said the skipper dully.
“What’s all this about small-pox?” demanded the new-comer abruptly.
The skipper waved his hand languidly towards the forecastle.