Another pause, during which the two men sucked their pipes, never remitting their steadfast gaze at each other, unless to turn their eyes upon the tumblers before raising them to their lips.
“Mr. Sherman seems to know what he is about,” said Captain Duff. “He has a fund of humanity in his bosom, and I like to reflect, sir, on his sitting by the poor de’il’s bed watching by him as though he were his ain son.”
Nothing could have been more à propos than this remark, if it were designed to reach the ear of the gentleman referred to; for, as the captain spoke, one of the snuff-coloured doors was opened, and Mr. Sherman came out.
“Hoo’s the patient?” asked the captain.
“He has his senses, though there is such a bewildered look on his face as I don’t think I ever saw on the human countenance,” replied Mr. Sherman, seating himself near the skipper, and looking about for a tumbler; whereat Mr. Banks called in a hurricane-note for “Atam,” meaning Adam. A small red-headed man emerged from somewhere and placed the materials for a glass of whisky toddy before Mr. Sherman.
“Ech!” ejaculated the skipper, “I daresay he is puzzled. So would I be if my last memory left me starving in an open boat and my next one found me warm in bed with the flavour of old Nantz brandy in my inside.”
“I have asked him no questions,” continued Mr. Sherman. “I know enough of doctoring to understand that his life may depend upon rest and silence.”
“My word, sir, you are a very gude-hearted man!” exclaimed the skipper; “and if ever I am shipwrecked, may it be my luck to fall into just such hands as yours. Your health, sir.”
Saying which, he half-emptied his tumbler, a performance that made his merry eyes glisten with delight.
“And the other man is ted?” said Mr. Banks.