POULTICE.

Call this cold? You orter been with me in '63, when I was whalin' in the
North Atlantic. I was steward on the _Ella Wheeler_, 6,000 tons, out from
New Caledonia. Our skipper was a reg'lar old bluenose, and some Tartar, I
_don't_ think! Why, 'e'd lay yer out sooner than look at yer; an' once 'e
put the cook in irons for two days 'cos the poor devil 'ad tumbled up
against the side of the galley an' burnt the 'air off the side of 'is 'ead,
and the old man said it was untidy; and we all 'ad to 'ave cold grub for
two days--and in them latitudes! Lord, 'ow we 'ated 'im!

But the worst of it was that we 'ad no doctor on board, and when anybody
took sick the old man insisted on doctorin' 'im 'isself; and 'e 'ad only
one way of treatin' every disease in the 'orspitals. "Put 'im into 'is
bunk," he says, "and wait till I bring 'im a 'ot linseed poultice for's
chest." Tooth-ache or chilblains, a pain in yer stummick or ring-worm--'e
always says the same thing, "Put 'im in his bunk," he says, "and I'll bring
'im a 'ot linseed poultice for 's chest." And 'e brought it and put it on
with 'is own 'ands too! There was no gettin' out of it if once 'e 'eard you
were sick. Lord, 'ow we 'ated 'im!

There was Pete Malone--'ad a great mop of 'air like a lion or a
musician--must needs go washing one day on deck, like a fool. It was all
right as long as 'e 'ad the 'ot water and the soapsuds goin'; but 'e give
'is 'ead a rinse, an' stood up, and, swelpme, before 'e could get the towel
to work every single 'air 'e 'd got 'ad its own private icicle, an' 'is
silly 'ead looked like a silver-plated porkypine.

Well, as I was saying, we were about a 'undred-and-fifty mile from the
nearest land, which 'ud be the West coast of Greenland, bearin' about E. by
N., when we thought that at last we were going' to get one back on the old
man. It was this way. One bitter cold night 'e was makin' 'is way aft to
turn in, when 'e slips up where a wave 'ad froze on the deck, an' e' goes
wallop down the 'ole length of the companion, from top to bottom, an' busts
three of 'is ribs. Of course we all ran an' picked 'im up, an' _said_ we
'oped 'e wasn't much 'urt. But 'e says, "None of yer jabber, ye swines;
'elp me inter my bunk, and two of yer bring me a 'ot linseed poultice for
my chest."

Well, we puts 'im in 'is bunk, and I catches the eye of the first mate, and
we goes out together. "Mick," says I, "'e's askin' for a 'ot poultice. Lord
send there's