The fishermen looked at Noah and the criminal reluctantly, but finally the older one turned to his son: "Get sum' rope." And the lad disappeared into the cottage. Fishing wasn't what it used to be, what with those trawlers depleting the stock, and the promise of two extra shillings was more enticing than the idea of dealing with street thugs (and helping to protect one) was unappealing.

The older fisherman walked over to Quentin and held out his hand. "But we'll have our payment in advance, ser, as a famous stranger is still a stranger."

The young man returned with rope and began to tie the criminal. Noah stepped back further. He looked on with horror, fighting the nauseating memory of the same young man pinioning him.

Quentin eyes the man and then pulls out two shilling handing them over without complaint. He didn't particularly worry about being taken advantage of at this juncture since he knew where the fishermen lived. If they failed to perform he could simply get the local magistrate involved.

With that sorted he offers Noah what support the boy requires before leading him to the nearest doctor. A head injury was not something to simply shrug off.

Noah let himself be led away by Quentin. He now felt more miserable than before. He was still pinching his nose, but there was blood in his mouth, and it was making him nauseous. "Dank you..." he muttered in a nasal voice. "I'm sowwy. I should 'ave paid more addendion."

"In this life we are all only accountable for our own actions for we are the only one we can control entirely." Quentin informs the lad as he leads him into the small clinic. The combination of Quentin's obvious wealth and Noah's obvious head injury letting them jump the line. "Do not apologize because three men decided to attack you. Even if you had noticed you could have only run which may very well have made it worse." He advises the young man.

Noah nodded thankfully, but stopped, because it made his head hurt.

The doctor cast one look at Noah and sighed. "Well, lad, been fighting in the street again, have ye?" He turned to Quentin. "Are you going to pay for him?" For it was obvious that Noah had no money, and most doctors were reluctant to treat patients before they were certain of payment.

"This young man had his head slammed into a brick wall by someone far older than him and your first question for me is whether or not I will pay?" There was a frost to his voice that might give the doctor pause. "I was unaware that the Hippocratic Oath only took effect when you are certain your pockets are being lined. I've spoken with healers in impoverished villages that have the good sense to get to work and worry about what payment they might receive afterward. But yes, I will pay for this young man since evidently you take your oath to do no harm so shallowly that you would potentially allow a young man to die from untreated head trauma rather than prevent it while it is in your power." There was genuine anger in Quentin's voice, it was not impassioned. He did not get heated when angry. But the ice in his tone was of the sort that brought to bear the full weight of displeasure someone like him could bring to bear against a person. Because he took things like vows and oaths quite seriously.

Noah looked from Quentin to the doctor and back in an 'oh shit' way.

The doctor looked at Quentin sourly. He lifted his chin a little. "That's all well enough for you wealthy lot, with leisure time to go slumming, to say, sir. But ordinary professionals like myself must make a living, and it wouldn't be the first time I've been cheated. There's a perfectly good infirmary at the workhouse for those who cannot pay."

He turned to Noah. "Well, let's see it then, young man. What's it this time? Any injuries apart from the head and nose?"

"No ser..." Noah said in a small voice and he allowed the doctor to inspect his head.

The doctor's rebuttal is met with a frosty gaze that would inform the man that Quentin did not see any particular merit to his arguement. Maybe it was the fact that the doctor with his obvious paunch was clearly not struggling and Quentun didnt think those who the doctor turned out to die in the street had the same luxury.

The doctor ignored Quentin's gaze and set to examining Noah. "Well," he said, after checking him, asking a few questions, and cleaning the back of his head. "The good news is that you're nose is not broken. The bad news is you have a mild concussion. You must take it easy and get some extra rest the coming two weeks. Also, for tonight, have someone wake you up in the middle of the night. If you don't wake up, or you're very confused, they must seek medical help immediately, you understand?"

Noah nodded, but stopped because it hurt. The doctor turned back to Quentin and handed him a small bottle with pills. That's for the pain. He can take up to three a day. That will be five shillings altogether."

Quentin accepts the bottle and eyed it thoughtfully. His gaze then flicks to the doctor as he hands the man five shillings without a word. He was not prone to dressing people down more than once but his displeasure at the man was still quite obvious. He elects not to speak again until he takes Noah outside and he address the boy once again.

"I assume if your parents find out you have a bottle of pills to dull pain they will take it from you."

He says it flatly. He was not unused to how cruel the world could be, he'd been a soldier and had seen far worse, but that did not mean he enjoyed it. The town of Whitby suddenly seemed less... endearing now that he saw how they treated their poor.