"Fly, my boy, fly,"
he had often said to Blyth, "if you ever come near such subjects."
"Captain, I will fetch them," continued Mr. Polwhele, looking grave at
his hesitation. "By good rights they ought to be smoked, I dare say,
though I don't hold much with such stuff myself. And the doctor keeps
doing a heap of herbs hot. You can see him, if you just come down these
few steps. Perhaps you wouldn't mind looking into the hold, to find
something to suit your judgment--quality combined with low figures
there--while I go into the infected den, as the cleverest of my chaps
calls it. Why, it makes me laugh! I've been in and out, with this
stand-up coat on, fifty times, and you can't smell a flue of it, though
wonderful strong down there."
Scudamore shuddered, and drew back a little, and then stole a glance
round the corner. He saw a thick smoke, and a figure prostrate, and
another tied up in a long white robe, waving a pan of burning stuff in
one hand and a bottle in the other, and plainly conjuring Polwhele to
keep off. Then the latter returned, quite complacently.
"Can't find all of them," he said, presenting a pile of papers big
enough to taint Sahara. "That doctor goes on as bad as opening a coffin.
Says he understands it, and I don't. The old figure-head! What does he
know about it?"
"Much more than you do, perhaps," replied Blyth, standing up for the
profession, as he was bound to do. "Perhaps we had better look at these
on deck, if you will bring up your lantern.
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