CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

A BLACK BUSINESS.

"Be jabers, sor!" exclaimed the Irishman in his very broadest brogue and
with a comical grin on his face that certainly must have eclipsed that
of which he complained in the professor of his college who had caught
him and his fellow-student trespassing on his medical preserves. "To
till the truth an' shame the divvle, colonel, the poor ould crayture,
whose complaint we couldn't underconstumble at all at all, sure, was
sufferin' from a fit of apoplexy--a thing aisy enough to recognise by
any docther of experience, though, faith, it moight have been Grake to
us!"

We were all very much amused and had a good laugh at this naive
confession, even Colonel Vereker sharing in the general mirth, in spite
of his profound melancholy and the pain he felt from his wounded leg,
which made him wince every now and again, I noticed, during the
narration of the story Garry O'Neil had thus told, with the utmost good
humour, it must be confessed, at his own expense, as, indeed, he had
made us understand beforehand that it would be.

"By George!" cried the skipper, after having his laugh out, "you'll be
the death of me some day with your queer yarns, if you can't manage to
do for me with your professional skill, or by the aid of your drugs and
lotions, poisons, most of 'em, and all your murderous-looking
instruments, besides!"

"No fear of that, cap'en; you're too tough a customer," rejoined the
doctor with a knowing look in the direction of Mr Stokes, who had made
himself purple in the face and was panting and puffing on his seat,
trying to recover his breath. "Faith, though, sor, talkin' of medical
skill, the sooner I say afther that leg of our fri'nd here, the better,
I'm thinkin'."

"With the best of wills," assented the colonel, who had finished his
luncheon by this time and certainly presented a much improved appearance
to that he had worn when entering the saloon. "I am quite at your
service, doctor, and promise to be as quiet as that first patient of
yours of whom you've just told us!"

"Belay that, colonel; none o' your chaff about the ould leddy, if you
love me, sure!" growled Garry, pretending to be indignant as he knelt
down on the cabin floor and slit up the leg of the colonel's trousers so
as to inspect the wound. His nonsensical, quizzing manner changed
instantly, however, on seeing the serious state of the injured limb, and
he ejaculated in a subdued tone of voice, "Hol