A Circular Tour by W.W. Jacobs

Illness? said the night watchman, slowly. Yes, sailormen get ill / sometimes, but not 'aving the time for it that other people have, and / there being no doctors at sea, they soon pick up agin. Ashore, if a / man's ill he goes to a horse-pittle and 'as a nice nurse to wait on 'im; / at sea the mate comes down and tells 'im that there is nothing the / matter with 'im, and asks 'im if he ain't ashamed of 'imself. The only / mate I ever knew that showed any feeling was one who 'ad been a doctor / and 'ad gone to sea to better 'imself. He didn't believe in medicine; / his idea was to cut things out, and he was so kind and tender, and so / fond of 'is little box of knives and saws, that you wouldn't ha' thought / anybody could 'ave had the 'art to say "no" to him. But they did. I / remember 'im getting up at four o'clock one morning to cut a man's leg / off, and at ha'-past three the chap was sitting up aloft with four pairs / o' trousers on and a belaying-pin in his 'and.

One chap I knew, Joe Summers by name, got so sick o' work one v'y'ge / that he went mad. Not dangerous mad, mind you. Just silly. One thing he / did was to pretend that the skipper was 'is little boy, and foller 'im / up unbeknown and pat his 'ead. At last, to pacify him, the old man / pretended that he was 'is little boy, and a precious handful of a boy he / was too, I can tell you. Fust of all he showed 'is father 'ow they / wrestled at school, and arter that he showed 'im 'ow he 'arf killed / another boy in fifteen rounds. Leastways he was going to, but arter / seven rounds Joe's madness left 'im all of a sudden and he was as right / as ever he was.