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[Illustration:  “THINK WE’LL ’AVE ANOTHER CUT AT THE ’UNS BEFORE THE WAR ENDS, JACK?”

“NO FEAR!  IT SAYS ’ERE THAT ‘INDENBURG’S TAKEN ALL THE ABLE-BODIED AN’ PUT ’EM ON TO WORK OF NATIONAL IMPORTANCE.”]

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THE 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 a good fire in the galley!” “If there ain’t,” says Micky to me, “we’ll damn’d soon make one.”  So we makes a fire such as none of the ship’s company ’ad