"The fo'c'sle had been turned into hospital about a week, an' I was on
deck doing some odd job or the other, when the cook comes up to me
pulling a face as long as a fiddle.
"'Nother invalid,' ses he; 'fust mate's gone stark, staring mad!'
"'Mad?' ses I.
"'Yes,' ses he. 'He's got a big basin in the galley, an' he's laughing
like a hyener an' mixing bilge-water an' ink, an' paraffin an' butter
an' soap an' all sorts o' things up together. The smell's enough to kill
a man; I've had to come away.'
"Curious-like, I jest walked up to the galley an' puts my 'ed in, an'
there was the mate as the cook said, smiling all over his face, and
ladling some thick sticky stuff into a stone bottle.
"'How's the pore sufferers, sir?' ses he, stepping out of the galley
jest as the skipper was going by.
"'They're very bad; but I hope for the best," ses the skipper, looking
at him hard. 'I'm glad to see you've turned a bit more feeling.'
"'Yes, sir,' ses the mate. 'I didn't think so at fust, but I can see now
them chaps is all very ill. You'll s'cuse me saying it, but I don't
quite approve of your treatment.'
"I thought the skipper would ha' bust.
"'My treatment?' ses he. 'My treatment? What do you know about it ?'
"'You're treating 'em wrong, sir,' ses the mate.
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