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- 9600
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:36.274Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 9528
- text
- the bosom of Cuticle when he looked on this cast. It was immovably
fixed to a bracket, against the partition of his state-room, so that it
was the first object that greeted his eyes when he opened them from his
nightly sleep. Nor was it to hide the face, that upon retiring, he
always hung his Navy cap upon the upward curling extremity of the horn,
for that obscured it but little.
The Surgeon’s cot-boy, the lad who made up his swinging bed and took
care of his room, often told us of the horror he sometimes felt when he
would find himself alone in his master’s retreat. At times he was
seized with the idea that Cuticle was a preternatural being; and once
entering his room in the middle watch of the night, he started at
finding it enveloped in a thick, bluish vapour, and stifling with the
odours of brimstone. Upon hearing a low groan from the smoke, with a
wild cry he darted from the place, and, rousing the occupants of the
neighbouring state-rooms, it was found that the vapour proceeded from
smouldering bunches of lucifer matches, which had become ignited
through the carelessness of the Surgeon. Cuticle, almost dead, was
dragged from the suffocating atmosphere, and it was several days ere he
completely recovered from its effects. This accident took place
immediately over the powder magazine; but as Cuticle, during his
sickness, paid dearly enough for transgressing the laws prohibiting
combustibles in the gun-room, the Captain contented himself with
privately remonstrating with him.
Well knowing the enthusiasm of the Surgeon for all specimens of morbid
anatomy, some of the ward-room officers used to play upon his
credulity, though, in every case, Cuticle was not long in discovering
their deceptions. Once, when they had some sago pudding for dinner, and
Cuticle chanced to be ashore, they made up a neat parcel of this
bluish-white, firm, jelly-like preparation, and placing it in a tin
box, carefully sealed with wax, they deposited it on the gun-room
table, with a note, purporting to come from an eminent physician in
Rio, connected with the Grand National Museum on the Praca d’
Acclamacao, begging leave to present the scientific Senhor Cuticle—with
the donor’s compliments—an uncommonly fine specimen of a cancer.
Descending to the ward-room, Cuticle spied the note, and no sooner read
it, than, clutching the case, he opened it, and exclaimed, “Beautiful!
splendid! I have never seen a finer specimen of this most interesting
disease.”
“What have you there, Surgeon Cuticle?” said a Lieutenant, advancing.
“Why, sir, look at it; did you ever see anything more exquisite?”
“Very exquisite indeed; let me have a bit of it, will you, Cuticle?”
“Let you have a bit of it!” shrieked the Surgeon, starting back. “Let
you have one of my limbs! I wouldn’t mar so large a specimen for a
hundred dollars; but what can you want of it? You are not making
collections!”
“I’m fond of the article,” said the Lieutenant; “it’s a fine cold
relish to bacon or ham. You know, I was in New Zealand last cruise,
Cuticle, and got into sad dissipation there among the cannibals; come,
let’s have a bit, if it’s only a mouthful.”
“Why, you infernal Feejee!” shouted Cuticle, eyeing the other with a
confounded expression; “you don’t really mean to eat a piece of this
cancer?”
“Hand it to me, and see whether I will not,” was the reply.
“In God’s name, take it!” cried the Surgeon, putting the case into his
hands, and then standing with his own uplifted.
“Steward!” cried the Lieutenant, “the castor—quick! I always use plenty
of pepper with this dish, Surgeon; it’s oystery. Ah! this is really
delicious,” he added, smacking his lips over a mouthful. “Try it now,
Surgeon, and you’ll never keep such a fine dish as this, lying uneaten
on your hands, as a mere scientific curiosity.”
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