Part 35 (2/2)

Lawrence Peabody shrank back in dismay at the unwelcome proposition.

”I couldn't do it,” he said, s.h.i.+vering. ”I never touched a dead body in my life. I am so delicate that I couldn't do it, I a.s.sure you.”

”It's lucky we are not all delicate,” said Miles, ”or the poor fellows would be left unburied. I suppose if anything happens to you, Peabody, you will expect us to bury you?”

”Oh, don't mention such a thing, Mr. Miles,” entreated Peabody, showing symptoms of becoming hysterical. ”I really can't bear it.”

”It's my belief that nature has made a mistake, and Peabody was meant for a woman,” said Miles, shrugging his shoulders.

”I will a.s.sist you, my friend,” said the Scotchman. ”It's all that remains for us to do for the poor fellows.”

”Not quite all,” said Tom. ”Somebody ought to write to the poor wife. We have her address in the letter you took from the pocket.”

”Well thought of, my lad,” said Fletcher. ”Will you undertake it?”

”If you think I can do it properly,” said Tom modestly.

”It'll be grievous news, whoever writes it. You can do it as well as another.”

In due time Mrs. Collins received a letter revealing the sad fate of her husband, accompanied with a few simple words of sympathy.

Over the grave a rude cross was planted, fas.h.i.+oned of two boards, with the name of James Collins, cut out with a jack-knife, upon them. This inscription was the work of Miles.

”Somebody may see it who knows Collins,” he said.

It happened that, on the second night after the discovery of Collins and his unfortunate companion, Lawrence Peabody's turn came to stand watch.

He was very uneasy and nervous through the day. In the hope of escaping the ordeal he so much dreaded he bound a handkerchief round his head.

”What's the matter, Mr. Peabody?” asked Fletcher.

”I've got a fearful headache,” groaned Peabody. ”It seems to me as if it would split open.”

”Let me feel of it,” said Fletcher.

”It doesn't feel hot; it doesn't throb,” he said.

”It aches terribly,” said Peabody. ”I'm very subject to headache. It is the effect of a delicate const.i.tution.”

”The fellow is shamming,” said Fletcher to himself; and he felt disgust rather than sympathy.

”It's a little curious, Mr. Peabody, that this headache should not come upon you till the day you are to stand on watch,” remarked the leader, with a sarcasm which even the young man from Boston detected.

”Yes, it's strange,” he admitted, ”and very unlucky, for of course you won't expect a sick man to watch.”

”You don't look at it in the right light, Mr. Peabody. I regard it as rather lucky than otherwise.”

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