Quay, loafing around less on the chance of a job (for odd jobs are
scarce at Polpier) than to wile away time, he had encountered Dr
Mant, the easy-going practitioner from St Martin's. Dr Mant
fancying an excursion after the mackerel, at that time swarming close
inshore, Nicky-Nan had rowed him out and back along the coast to St
Martin's. The bargain struck for half-a-crown, the doctor sent his
trap back by road.

Some way out at sea he inquired, "Hullo! what's wrong with that right
knee of yours?"

"Ricked it," answered Nicky-Nan mendaciously, and added, "I was
thinkin' to consult you, sir. I be due for trainin' with the Reserve
in a fortni't's time."

"Want a certificate? Here, let me have a feel what's wrong."
The Doctor interrupted his whiffing for a moment to reach forward and
feel Nicky's knee professionally, outside the thick sea-cloth
trousers. "Hurts, does it? You've a nasty swelling there, my man."

"It hurts a bit, sir, and no mistake. If I could only have a
certificate now--"

"All right; I'll give you one," said the Doctor, and turned his
attention again to the mackerel.

Before stepping ashore at St Martin's, he pulled out a fountain-pen
and scribbled the certificate on a leaf torn from his note-book.
Having with this and one shilling compounded for his trip, he said as
he traced up his catch--