ll you have the goodness to keep
this familiar way of speaking to people of your own class!"

"Oh, certainly," said the skipper. "Very well, then; send for me when
you feel disposed to have it dressed; and I'll tell you what, you can
let Poole wait till the cool of the evening, and he can bathe it and do
it then."

"Bah!" cried the lad angrily. "Is it likely I am going to trust myself
in his clumsy hands? There, stop and do it now, as I am awake. Here,
stop, get some fresh cool water and hold the basin. Pish! I mean that
nasty tin-bowl."

Poole got what was necessary without a word, and then stood by while the
injury was carefully bathed and bandaged, the patient not uttering a
single word of thanks, but submitting with the worst of graces, and just
giving his doctor a condescending nod when with a word of congratulation
the latter left the cabin.

There was profound silence then, saving a click or two and a rustle as
Poole put the various things away, Fitz lying back on his pillow and
watching him the while, till at last he spoke, in an exacerbating way--

"Here, you sir, was that doctor, skipper, or whatever he calls himself,
trained before he came to sea?"

Poole flushed and remained silent.

"Did you hear what I said, boy?" cried Fitz.

"Yes," was the short reply, resentfully given.

"Yes, _sir_. Impudent scoundrel! Do you know whom you are addressing?
_Sir_ to an officer in Her Majesty's service, whatever his rank."

"Oh, yes, I know whom I am talking to."

"Yes, _sir_, you oaf! Where are your manners? Is that fellow a
surgeon?"

"No; he is captain of this ship."

"Ship! Captain!" sneered the boy, in a contemptuous tone which made his
listener writhe. "Why, it's a trading schooner, isn't it?"

Poole was about to speak out sharply, when a glance at the helpless
condition of the speaker disarmed him, and he said quietly--

"Oh, yes, of course it's a trading schooner, but it was originally a
gentleman's yacht, and sails like one."

"Indeed!" said the boy sneeringly. "And pray whose is it?"

Poole looked at him open-eyed as if expecting to see him suffering from
a little deliriousness again; but as no sign was visible he merely said
quietly--

"My father's."

"And pray who's your father?"

Poole looked at him again, still in doubt.

"That is."

"Oh!"

There was silence for a few moments, before Fitz turned himself wearily
and said in a careless, off-hand tone--

"And what's