Part 118 (1/2)

”Again?”

”Well, I am,” said Pete, looking ashamed. ”Yes, truth enough, that's what I'm thinking of doing. You see,” with a persuasive air, ”when a man's bitten by travel it's like the hydrophobia ezactly, he can't rest no time in one bed at all. Must be running here and running there--and running reg'lar. It's the way with me, anyway. Used to think the ould island would be big enough for the rest of my days. But, no! I'm longing shocking for the mines again, and the compound, and the n.i.g.g.e.rs, and the wild life out yonder. 'The sea's calling me,' you know.” And then he laughed.

Philip understood him--Pete meant to take himself out of the way. ”Shall you stay long?” he faltered.

”Well, yes, I was thinking so,” said Pete. ”You see, the stuff isn't panning out now same as it used to, and fortunes aren't made as fast as they were in my time. Not that I'm wanting a fortune, neither--is it likely now? But, still and for all--well, I'll be away a good spell, anyway.”

Philip tried to ask if he intended to go soon.

”To-morrow, sir, by the packet to Liverpool, for the sailing on Wednesday. I've been going the rounds saying 'goodbye' to the ould chums--Jonaique, and John the Widow, and Niplightly, and Kelly the postman. Not much heart at some of them; just a bit of a something stowed away in their giblets; but it isn't right to be expecting too much at all. This is the only one that doesn't seem willing to part with me.”

Pete's dog had followed him into the room, and was sitting soberly by the side of his chair. ”There's no shaking him off, poor ould chap.”

The dog got up and wagged his stump.

”Well, we've tramped the world together, haven't we, Dempster? He doesn't seem tired of me yet neither.” Pete's face lengthened. ”But there's Grannie, now. The ould angel is going about like a bit of a thunder-cloud, and doesn't know in the world whether to burst on me or not. Thinks I've been cruel, seemingly. I can't be explaining to her neither. Maybe you'll set it right for me when I'm gone, sir. It's you for a job like that, you know. Don't want her to be thinking hard of me, poor ould thing.”

Pete whistled at the child, and halloed to it, and then, in a lower tone, he continued, ”Not been to Castletown, sir. Got as far as Ballasalla, and saw the castle tower. Then my heart was losing me, and I turned back. You'll say good-bye for me, Phil Tell her I forgave--no, not that, though. Say I left her my love--that won't do neither.

_You'll_ know best what to say when the time comes, Phil, so I lave it with you. Maybe you'll tell her I went away cheerful and content, and, well, happy--why not? No harm in saying that at all. Not breaking my heart, anyway, for when a man's a man--H'm!” clearing his throat, ”I'm bad dreadful these days wanting a smook in the mornings. May I smook here? I may? You're good, too.”

He cut his tobacco with his discoloured knife, rolled it, charged his pipe, and lit it.

”Sorry to be going away just before your own great day, Phil. I'll get the skipper to fire a round as we're steaming by Castletown, and if there's a band aboord I'll tip them a trifle to play 'Myle Charaine.'

That'll spake to you like the blackbird's whistle, as the saying is.

Looks like deserting you, though. But, chut! it would be no surprise to me at all. I've seen it coming these years and years. 'You'll be the first Manxman living,' says I the day I sailed before. You've not deceaved me neither. D'ye remember the morning on the quay, and the oath between the pair of us? Me swearing you same as a high bailiff--nothing and n.o.body to come between us--d'ye mind it, Phil? And nothing has, and nothing shall.”

He puffed at his pipe, and said significantly, ”You'll be getting married soon. Aw, you will, I know you will, I'm sarten sure you will.”

Philip could not look into his face. He felt little and mean.

”You're a wise man, sir, and a great man, but if a plain common chap may give you a bit of advice--aw, but you'll be losing no time, though, I'll not be here myself to see it. I'll be on the water, maybe, with the waves was.h.i.+ng agen the gun'ale, and the wind rattling in the rigging, and the s.h.i.+p burrowing into the darkness of the sea. But I'll be knowing it's morning at home, and the sun s.h.i.+ning, and a sort of a warm quietness everywhere, and you and her at the ould church together.”

The pipe was puffing audibly.

”Tell her I lave her my blessing. Tell her--but the way I'm smooking, it's shocking. Your curtains will be smelling thick twist for a century.”

Philip's moist eyes were following the child along the floor.

”What about the little one?” he asked with difficulty.

”Ah I tell you the truth, Phil, that's the for I came. Well, mostly, anyway. You see, a child isn't fit for a compound ezactly. Not but they're thinking diamonds of a lil thing out there, specially if it's a girl. But still and for all, with n.i.g.g.e.rs about and chaps as rough as a thornbush and no manners to spake of----”

Philip interrupted eagerly--”Will you leave her with Grannie!”

”Well, no, that wasn't what I was thinking. Grannie's a bit ould getting and she's had her whack. Wanting ais.e.m.e.nt in her ould days, anyway.

Then she'll be knocking under before the lil one's up--that's only to be expected. No, I was thinking--what d'ye think I was thinking now?”

”What?” said Philip with quick-coming breath. He did not raise his head.

”I was thinking--well, yes, I was, then--it's a fact, though--I was thinking maybe yourself, now----”