As we had a signal for medical assistance flying on the mizzen it is a fact that before the ship was fairly at rest three steam launches from various men-of-war were alongside; and at least five naval surgeons had clambered on board.  They stood in a knot gazing up and down the empty main deck, then looked aloft—­where not a man could be seen, either.

I went toward them—­a solitary figure, in a blue and gray striped sleeping suit and a pipe-clayed cork helmet on its head.  Their disgust was extreme.  They had expected surgical cases.  Each one had brought his carving tools with him.  But they soon got over their little disappointment.  In less than five minutes one of the steam launches was rushing shoreward to order a big boat and some hospital people for the removal of the crew.  The big steam pinnace went off to her ship to bring over a few bluejackets to furl my sails for me.

One of the surgeons had remained on board.  He came out of the forecastle looking impenetrable, and noticed my inquiring gaze.

“There’s nobody dead in there, if that’s what you want to know,” he said deliberately.  Then added in a tone of wonder:  “The whole crew!”

“And very bad?”

“And very bad,” he repeated.  His eyes were roaming all over the ship.  “Heavens!  What’s that?”

“That,” I said, glancing aft, “is Mr. Burns, my chief officer.”

Mr. Burns with his moribund head nodding on the stalk of his lean neck was a sight for any one to exclaim at.  The surgeon asked: 

“Is he going to the hospital, too?”

“Oh, no,” I said jocosely.  “Mr. Burns can’t go on shore till the mainmast goes.  I am very proud of him.  He’s my only convalescent.”

“You look—­” began the doctor staring at me.  But I interrupted him angrily: 

“I am not ill.”

“No. . . .  You look queer.”

“Well, you see, I have been seventeen days on deck.”

“Seventeen! . . .  But you must have slept.”

“I suppose I must have.  I don’t know.  But I’m certain that I didn’t sleep for the last forty hours.”

“Phew! . . .  You will be going ashore presently I suppose?”

“As soon as ever I can.  There’s no end of business waiting for me there.”

The surgeon released my hand, which he had taken while we talked, pulled out his pocket-book, wrote in it rapidly, tore out the page and offered it to me.

“I strongly advise you to get this prescription made up for yourself ashore.  Unless I am much mistaken you will need it this evening.”

“What is it, then?” I asked with suspicion.

“Sleeping draught,” answered the surgeon curtly; and moving with an air of interest toward Mr. Burns he engaged him in conversation.

As I went below to dress to go ashore, Ransome followed me.  He begged my pardon; he wished, too, to be sent ashore and paid off.

I looked at him in surprise.  He was waiting for my answer with an air of anxiety.