I couldn't stand by and see him do that, though. He was too fine an old sport to be polished off in any such style. "See here, Commodore," says I, "if you're dead stuck on makin' a livin' skeleton of yourself, why, I throws up me hands. But if you'll stay here for a couple of weeks and do just as I say, I'll put you in trim to hit up the kind of life I reckon you think is worth livin'. "By glory!" says he, "if you can do that I'll--" "No you won't," say I. "This is my blow." Course, it was a cinch. He wa'n't any invalid. There was stuff enough in him to last for twenty years, if it was handled right. He begun to pick up right away. I only worked him hard enough to make the meals seem a long ways apart and the mattress feel good. Inside of a week I had the red back in his cheeks, and he was chuckin' the medicine ball around good and hard, and tellin' me what a scrapper he used to be when he first went to the cadet mill, down to Annapolis. You can always tell when these old boys feel kinky--they begin to remember things like that. Before the fortnight was up he wasn't shyin' at anything on the bill of fare, and he was hintin' around that his thirst was comin' back strong. "Can't I ever have another drink?" says he, as sad as a kid leavin' home. "I'd take as little as I could get along with," says I. "I'll promise to do that," says he. He did, too. About the second day after he'd gone back to his son-in-law's place, he sends for me to come over. I finds him walkin' around the grounds as spry as a two-year-old. "Well," says I, "how did the folks take it?" He chuckles. "They don't know what to say," says he. "They can't see how a specialist who charges five hundred dollars for an hour's visit can be wrong; but they admit I'm as good as new." "How's Babbitt?" says I. "That's why I wanted you to come over," says he. "Now watch." Then he lets out a roar you could have heard ten blocks away, and in about two shakes old wash-day shows up. "Ha! You shark-nosed sculpin!" yells the Commodore. "Where's your confounded tea cart? Go get it, sir." "Yes, sir; directly, sir," says Babbitt. He comes trottin' back with it in a hurry. "Got any of that blasted decayed milk in it?" says the Commodore. "No, sir," says Babbitt. "Are you glad or sorry? Speak up, now," says the Commodore. "I'm glad, sir," says Babbitt, givin' the salute. "Good!" says the Commodore. "Then open up your wagon and mix me a Scotch high-ball." And Babbitt did it like a little man. "I find," says the Commodore, winkin' at me over the top of his glass, "that I can get along with as few as six of these a day. To your very good health, Professor McCabe." Stand it? Well, I shouldn't wonder. He's a tough one. And ten years from now, if there's another Dago fleet to be filled full of shot holes, I shouldn't be surprised to find my old Commodore fit and ready to turn the trick. CHAPTER XII