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For three days they kept their lodgings and became fast friends, going, despite their anxiety, for various trips in the neighbourhood. Twice a day at least they sent down beef-tea and other delicacies for the invalid, which never got farther than the cabin, communication being kept up by a small boy who had strict injunctions not to go aboard. On the fourth day in the early morning they came down as close to the ship as they dared to bid farewell.

“Write if there’s any change for the worse,” cried Mrs. Bunnett.

“Or if you get it, George,” cried Mrs. Fillson anxiously.

“It’s all right, he’s going on beautiful,” said the mate.

The two wives appeared to be satisfied, and with a final adieu went off to the railway station, turning at every few yards to wave farewells until they were out of sight.

“If ever I have another woman aboard my ship, George,” said the skipper, “I’ll run into something. Who’s the old gentleman?”

He nodded in the direction of an elderly man with white side-whiskers, who, with a black bag in his hand, was making straight for the schooner.

“Captain Bunnett?” he inquired sharply.

“That’s me, sir,” said the skipper.

“Your wife sent me,” said the tall man briskly. “My name’s Thompson–Dr. Thompson. She says you’ve got a case of small-pox on board which she wants me to see.”

“We’ve got a doctor,” said the skipper and mate together.

“So your wife said, but she wished me particularly to see the case,” said Dr. Thompson. “It’s also my duty as the medical officer of the port.”

“You’ve done it, George, you’ve done it,” moaned the panic-stricken skipper reproachfully.

“Well, anybody can make a mistake,” whispered the mate’ back; “an’ he can’t touch us, as it ain’t small-pox. Let him come, and we’ll lay it on to the cook. Say he made a mistake.”

“That’s the ticket,” said the skipper, and turned to assist the doctor to the deck as the mate hurried below to persuade the indignant boy to strip and go to bed.

In the midst of a breathless silence the doctor examined the patient; then, to the surprise of all, he turned to the crew and examined them one after the other.

“How long has this boy been ill?” he demanded.

“About four days,” said the puzzled skipper.

“You see what comes of trying to hush this kind of thing up,” said the doctor sternly. “You keep the patient down here instead of having him taken away and the ship disinfected, and now all these other poor fellows have got it.”

“What?” screamed the skipper, as the crew broke into profane expressions of astonishment and self-pity. “Got what?”

“Why, the small-pox,” said the doctor. “Got it in its worst form too. Suppressed. There’s not one of them got a mark on him. It’s all inside.”

“Well, I’m damned,” said the skipper, as the crew groaned despairingly.

“What else did you expect?” inquired the doctor wrathfully. “Well, they can’t be moved now; they must all go to bed, and you and the mate must nurse them.”

“And s’pose we catch it?” said the mate feelingly.

“You must take your chance,” said the doctor; then he relented a little. “I’ll try to send a couple of nurses down this afternoon,” he added. “In the meantime you must do what you can for them.”

“Very good sir,” said the skipper brokenly.

“All you can do at present,” said the doctor, as he slowly mounted the steps, “is to sponge them all over with cold water. Do it every half-hour till the rash comes out.”

“Very good,” said the skipper again. “But you’ll hurry up with the nurses, sir!”

He stood in a state of bewilderment until the doctor was out of sight, and then, with a heavy sigh, took his coat off and set to work.

He and the mate, after warning off the men who had come down to work, spent all the morning in sponging their crew, waiting with an impatience born of fatigue for the rash to come out. This impatience was shared by the crew, the state of mind of the cook after the fifth sponging calling for severe rebuke on the part of the skipper.