"Bah!" cried the lad angrily. "Is it likely I am going to trust myself in his clumsy hands? There, stop and do it now, as I am awake. Here, stop, get some fresh cool water and hold the basin. Pish! I mean that nasty tin-bowl." Poole got what was necessary without a word, and then stood by while the injury was carefully bathed and bandaged, the patient not uttering a single word of thanks, but submitting with the worst of graces, and just giving his doctor a condescending nod when with a word of congratulation the latter left the cabin. There was profound silence then, saving a click or two and a rustle as Poole put the various things away, Fitz lying back on his pillow and watching him the while, till at last he spoke, in an exacerbating way-- "Here, you sir, was that doctor, skipper, or whatever he calls himself, trained before he came to sea?" Poole flushed and remained silent. "Did you hear what I said, boy?" cried Fitz. "Yes," was the short reply, resentfully given. "Yes, _sir_. Impudent scoundrel! Do you know whom you are addressing? _Sir_ to an officer in Her Majesty's service, whatever his rank." "Oh, yes, I know whom I am talking to." "Yes, _sir_, you oaf! Where are your manners? Is that fellow a surgeon?" "No; he is captain of this ship." "Ship! Captain!" sneered the boy, in a contemptuous tone which made his listener writhe. "Why, it's a trading schooner, isn't it?" Poole was about to speak out sharply, when a glance at the helpless condition of the speaker disarmed him, and he said quietly-- "Oh, yes, of course it's a trading schooner, but it was originally a gentleman's yacht, and sails like one." "Indeed!" said the boy sneeringly. "And pray whose is it?" Poole looked at him open-eyed as if expecting to see him suffering from a little deliriousness again; but as no sign was visible he merely said quietly-- "My father's." "And pray who's your father?" Poole looked at him again, still in doubt. "That is." "Oh!" There was silence for a few moments, before Fitz turned himself wearily and said in a careless, off-hand tone-- "And what's the name of the craft?" "The _Silver Teal_." "Silver Eel--eh? What a ridiculously slippery name for a boat!" "_Silver Teal_," said Poole emphatically. "Silver Grandmother! A nice set you must be to give your gimcrack craft such a name as that! But you may take my word for it that as soon as ever you are caught in your slippery eel you will all either be hung or go to penal servitude for life--though perhaps you'll be let off, as you are nothing better than a boy." "Oh yes, I am only a boy," said Poole, rather bitterly; "but the _Silver Teal_, or Silver Eel as you call it, has to be caught yet. Your people did not make a very grand affair of it the other night."