"No," he said, evidently following a private line of thought; "you
don't belong behind a counter, Leslie. I'm darned if I think you
belong in the medical profession, either. The British army'd suit
you."
"The--what?"
"You know--Kipling idea--riding horseback, head of a column--
undress uniform--colonel's wife making eyes at you--leading last
hopes and all that."
"The British army with Kipling trimmings being out of the question,
the original issue is still before us. I'll have to work, Mac, and
work like the devil, if I'm to feed myself."
There being no answer to this, McWhirter contented himself with
eyeing me.
"I'm thinking," I said, "of going to Europe. The sea is calling
me, Mac."
"So was the grave a month ago, but it didn't get you. Don't be an ass,
boy. How are you going to sea?"
"Before the mast." This apparently conveying no meaning to McWhirter,
I supplemented--"as a common sailor."
He was indignant at first, offering me his room and a part of his
small salary until I got my strength; then he became dubious; and
finally, so well did I paint my picture of long, idle days on the
ocean, of sweet, cool nights under the stars, with breezes that
purred through the sails, rocking the ship to slumber--finally he
waxed enthusiastic, and was even for giving up the pharmacy at
once and sailing with me.
He had been fitting out the storeroom of a sailing-yacht with drugs,
he informed me, and doing it under the personal direction of the
owner's wife.
"I've made a hit with her," he confided. "Since she's learned I'm
a graduate M.D., she's letting me do the whole thing. I've made up
some lotions to prevent sunburn, and that seasick prescription of
old Larimer's, and she thinks I'm the whole cheese. I'll suggest
you as ships doctor."
"How many men in the crew?"
"Eight, I think, or ten. It's a small boat, and carries a small
crew."
"Then they don't want a ship's doctor. If I go, I'll go as a
sailor," I said firmly. "And I want your word, Mac, not a word
about me, except that I am honest."
"You'll have to wash decks, probably."
"I am filled with a wild longing to wash decks," I asserted, smiling
at his disturbed face. "I should probably also have to polish brass.
There's a great deal of brass on the boat."
"How do you know that?"
When I told him, he was much excited, and, although it was dark and
the Ella consisted of three lights, he insisted on the opera-glasses,
and was persuaded he saw her. Finally he put down the glasses and
came over, to me.
"Perhaps you are right, Leslie," he said soberly. "You don't want
charity, any more than they want a ship's doctor. Wherever you go
and whatever you do, whether you're swabbing decks in your bare feet
or polishing brass railings with an old sock, you're a man."