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He
noted the spare, active frame, the arrogant poise of the head, the
air of authority that invested Mr. Blood, and soldier recognized
soldier. The Captain's eyes narrowed. Recognition went further.
"Who the hell may you be?" he exploded."
"My name is Blood, sir - Peter Blood, at your service."
"Aye - aye! Codso! That's the name. You were in French service
once, were you not?"
If Mr. Blood was surprised, he did not betray it.
"I was."
"Then I remember you - five years ago, or more, you were in Tangiers."
"That is so. I knew your colonel."
"Faith, you may be renewing the acquaintance." The Captain laughed
unpleasantly. "What brings you here, sir?"
"This wounded gentleman. I was fetched to attend him. I am a
medicus."
"A doctor - you?" Scorn of that lie - as he conceived it - rang in
the heavy, hectoring voice.
"Medicinae baccalaureus," said Mr. Blood.
"Don't fling your French at me, man," snapped Hobart. "Speak
English!"
Mr. Blood's smile annoyed him.
"I am a physician practising my calling in the town of Bridgewater.


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