"The wound hurts a good deal." "Good sign; 'tis its nature to," said the doctor jocosely.
"But--er--you don't think, sir--" "`That you may die after it,' as we used to say over cut fingers at school.

Bah! it's a nice clean honest cut, made with a sharp knife.
Heal up like anything with your healthy young flesh." "But don't these savage people sometimes poison their blades, sir ?" "Don't people who are wounded for the first time get all kinds of cock-and-bull notions into their heads, sir?
There, go to sleep and forget all about it.

Healthy smarting is what you feel.

Why, you'll be able to limp about the deck with a stick to-morrow." "Do you mean it, sir ?" "Of course." Barkins gave him a grateful look, and Mr Reardon shook hands, nodded, and left us to ourselves for a moment, then the doctor thrust in his head again.
"Here, lads," he said, "Smith's all right, I've made a capital job of his arm.

Your turn next, Herrick.