“I know of a doctor here,” said the mate; “that’s all arranged for.” He moved away for a little private talk with the skipper, but that gentleman was not in a conversational mood, and a sombre silence fell upon all until they were snugly berthed at Summercove, and the ladies, preceded by their luggage on a trolly, went off to look for lodgings. They sent down an hour later to say that they had found them, and that they were very clean and comfortable, but a little more than they had intended to give. They implored their husbands not to run any unnecessary risks, and sent some disinfectant soap for them to wash with. For three days they kept their lodgings and became fast friends, going, despite their anxiety, for various trips in the neighbourhood. Twice a day at least they sent down beef-tea and other delicacies for the invalid, which never got farther than the cabin, communication being kept up by a small boy who had strict injunctions not to go aboard. On the fourth day in the early morning they came down as close to the ship as they dared to bid farewell. “Write if there’s any change for the worse,” cried Mrs. Bunnett. “Or if you get it, George,” cried Mrs. Fillson anxiously. “It’s all right, he’s going on beautiful,” said the mate. The two wives appeared to be satisfied, and with a final adieu went off to the railway station, turning at every few yards to wave farewells until they were out of sight. “If ever I have another woman aboard my ship, George,” said the skipper, “I’ll run into something. Who’s the old gentleman?” He nodded in the direction of an elderly man with white side-whiskers, who, with a black bag in his hand, was making straight for the schooner. “Captain Bunnett?” he inquired sharply. “That’s me, sir,” said the skipper. “Your wife sent me,” said the tall man briskly. “My name’s Thompson—Dr. Thompson. She says you’ve got a case of small-pox on board which she wants me to see.” “We’ve got a doctor,” said the skipper and mate together. “So your wife said, but she wished me particularly to see the case,” said Dr. Thompson. “It’s also my duty as the medical officer of the port.” “You’ve done it, George, you’ve done it,” moaned the panic-stricken skipper reproachfully. “Well, anybody can make a mistake,” whispered the mate back; “an’ he can’t touch us, as it _ain’t_ small-pox. Let him come, and we’ll lay it on to the cook. Say he made a mistake.” “That’s the ticket,” said the skipper, and turned to assist the doctor to the deck as the mate hurried below to persuade the indignant boy to strip and go to bed. In the midst of a breathless silence the doctor examined the patient; then, to the surprise of all, he turned to the crew and examined them one after the other. “How long has this boy been ill?” he demanded. “About four days,” said the puzzled skipper.