“You see what comes of trying to hush this kind of thing up,” said the doctor sternly. “You keep the patient down here instead of having him taken away and the ship disinfected, and now all these other poor fellows have got it.” “_What?_” screamed the skipper, as the crew broke into profane expressions of astonishment and self-pity. “Got what?” “Why, the small-pox,” said the doctor. “Got it in its worst form too. Suppressed. There’s not one of them got a mark on him. It’s all inside.” “Well, I’m damned,” said the skipper, as the crew groaned despairingly. “What else did you expect?” inquired the doctor wrathfully. “Well, they can’t be moved now; they must all go to bed, and you and the mate must nurse them.” “And s’pose we catch it?” said the mate feelingly. “You must take your chance,” said the doctor; then he relented a little. “I’ll try and send a couple of nurses down this afternoon,” he added. “In the mean time you must do what you can for them.” “Very good, sir,” said the skipper brokenly. “All you can do at present,” said the doctor as he slowly mounted the steps, “is to sponge them all over with cold water. Do it every half-hour till the rash comes out.” “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. “Hulloa, there,” came a voice from the quay. Both men turned and looked up at the speaker. “Hulloa,” said the skipper dully. “What’s all this about small-pox?” demanded the newcomer abruptly. The skipper waved his hand languidly towards the fo’c’sle. “Five of ’em down with it,” he said quietly. “Are you another doctor, sir?” Without troubling to reply their visitor jumped on board and went nimbly below, followed by the other two. “Stand out of the light,” he said brusquely. “Now, my lads, let’s have a look at you.” He examined them in a state of bewilderment, grunting strangely as the washed-out men submitted to his scrutiny. “They’ve had the best of cold sponging,” said the skipper, not without a little pride. “Best of what?” demanded the other. The skipper told him, drawing back indignantly as the doctor suddenly sat down and burst into a hoarse roar of laughter. The unfeeling noise grated harshly on the sensitive ears of the sick men, and Joe Burrows, raising himself in his bunk, made a feeble attempt to hit him.