“Go down and tidy my cabin, and see you do it well.”
The doctor went below without a word, and worked like a housemaid. When he came on deck again, his face wore a smile almost of happiness, and his hand caressed one trousers pocket as though it concealed a hidden weapon.
For the following three or four days the two unfortunates were worked unceasingly. Mr. Thomson complained bitterly, but the cook wore a sphinx-like smile and tried to comfort him.
“It won’t be for long, Harry,” he said, consolingly.
The solicitor sniffed. “I could write tract after tract on temperance,” he said, bitterly. “I wonder what our poor wives are thinking? I expect they have put us down as dead.”
“Crying their eyes out,” said the doctor, wistfully; “but they’ll dry them precious quick when we get back, and ask all sorts of questions. What are you going to say, Harry?”
“The truth,” said the solicitor, virtuously.
“So am I,” said his friend; “but mind, we must both tell the same tale, whatever it is. Halloa! what’s the matter?”
“It’s the skipper,” said the boy, who had just run up; “he wants to see you at once. He’s dying.”
He caught hold of the doctor by the sleeve; but Carson, in his most professional manner, declined to be hurried. He went leisurely down the companion-ladder, and met with a careless glance the concerned faces of the mate and second officer.