“When you get back to Melbourne,” said the doctor, quietly, “you’ll hear more of this.” “You’re a couple of pickpockets aping the gentleman,” said the skipper, and he turned to the mate. “Mr. Mackenzie, what do these two ragamuffins look like?” “Pickpockets,” said the mate, dutifully. “It’s a very handy thing,” said the old man, jeeringly, “to have a doctor aboard. First time I’ve carried a surgeon.” Mr. Mackenzie guffawed loudly. “And a solicitor,” said the skipper, gazing darkly at the hapless Harry Thomson, who was cleaning brasswork. “Handy in case of disputes. He’s a real sea lawyer. _Cook!_” “Sir?” said the doctor, quietly. “Go down and tidy my cabin, and see you do it well.” The doctor went below without a word, and worked like a housemaid. When he came on deck again, his face wore a smile almost of happiness, and his hand caressed one trousers pocket as though it concealed a hidden weapon. For the following three or four days the two unfortunates were worked unceasingly. Mr. Thomson complained bitterly, but the cook wore a sphinx-like smile and tried to comfort him. “It won’t be for long, Harry,” he said, consolingly. The solicitor sniffed. “I could write tract after tract on temperance,” he said, bitterly. “I wonder what our poor wives are thinking? I expect they have put us down as dead.” “Crying their eyes out,” said the doctor, wistfully; “but they’ll dry them precious quick when we get back, and ask all sorts of questions. What are you going to say, Harry?” “The truth,” said the solicitor, virtuously. “So am I,” said his friend; “but mind, we must both tell the same tale, whatever it is. Halloa! what’s the matter?” “It’s the skipper,” said the boy, who had just run up; “he wants to see you at once. He’s dying.” He caught hold of the doctor by the sleeve; but Carson, in his most professional manner, declined to be hurried. He went leisurely down the companion-ladder, and met with a careless glance the concerned faces of the mate and second officer. “Come to the skipper at once,” said the mate. “Does he want to see me?” said the doctor, languidly, as he entered the cabin. The skipper was lying doubled up in his bunk, his face twisted with pain. “Doctor,” he panted, “give me something quick. There’s the medicine-chest.” “Do you want some food, sir?” inquired the other, respectfully. “Food be damned!” said the sufferer. “I want physic. There’s the medicine-chest.” The doctor took it up and held it out to him. “I don’t want the lot,” moaned the skipper. “I want you to give me something for red-hot corkscrews in the inside.” “I beg your pardon,” said the doctor, humbly; “I’m only the cook.” “If you—don’t—prescribe for me at once,” said the skipper, “I’ll put you in irons.” The doctor shook his head. “I shipped as cook,” he said, slowly. “Give me something, for Heaven’s sake!” said the skipper, humbly. “I’m dying.” The doctor pondered.