Part 41 (1/2)

”'Is you gone an' forgot,' says I, 'about Jagger?'

”'Never you mind about Jagger, Docks,' says he. 'I'll see _him_,' says he, 'later. Call the hands,' says he, 'an' we'll wreck her like men!'”

Docks covered his face with his hands. Place was once more given to the noises of the gale. He looked up--broken, listless; possessed again by the mood of that time.

”An' what did _you_ say, lad?” Skipper Billy whispered.

”I hadn't no objection,” sighed the lad.

The answer was sufficient.

”So I called the hands,” Docks went on. ”An' when the second hand cotched sight o' the rocks we was bound for, he went mad, an' tumbled over the taffrail; an' the cook was so weak a lurch o' the s.h.i.+p flung him after the second hand afore we reached the breakers. I never seed Skipper Jim no more; nor the cook, nor the second hand, nor poor Tommy Mib. But I'm glad the Lord G.o.d A'mighty give Jim the chance t' die right, though he'd lived wrong. Oh, ay! I'm fair glad the good Lord done that. The Labradormen give us a cheer when the chain went rattlin' over an' the _Sink or Swim_ gathered way--a cheer, sir, that beat its way agin the wind--G.o.d bless them!--an' made me feel that in the end I was a man agin. She went t' pieces when she struck,” he added, as if in afterthought; ”but I'm something of a hand at swimmin', an' I got ash.o.r.e on a bit o' spar. An' then I come down the coast 'til I found you lyin'

here in the lee o' Saul's Island.” After a pause, he said hoa.r.s.ely, to Skipper Billy: ”They had the smallpox at Tops'l Cove, says you? They got it yet at Smith's Arm? At Harbour Rim an' Highwater Cove they been dyin'? How did they die at Seldom Cove? Like flies, says you? An' one was a kid?”

”_My_ kid,” said Skipper Billy, quietly still.

”My G.o.d!” cried Docks. ”_His_ kid! How does that there song go? What about they lakes o' fire? Wasn't it,

”'They's lakes o' fire in h.e.l.l t' sail for such as Skipper Jim!'

you sung? Lord! sir, I'm thinkin' I'll have t' s.h.i.+p along o' Skipper Jim once more!”

”No, no, lad!” cried Skipper Billy, speaking from the heart. ”For you was willin' t' die right. But G.o.d help Jagger on the mornin' o' the Judgment Day! I'll be waitin' at the foot o' the throne o' G.o.d t' charge un with the death o' my wee kid!”

Doctor Luke sat there frowning.

XXVI

DECOYED

Despite Skipper Billy's anxious, laughing protest that 'twas not yet fit weather to be at sea, the doctor next day ordered the sail set: for, as he said, he was all of a maddening itch to be about certain business, of a professional and official turn, at our harbour and Wayfarer's Tickle, and could no longer wait the pleasure of a d.a.m.ned obstinate nor'east gale--a shocking way to put it, indeed, but vastly amusing when uttered with a fleeting twinkle of the eye: vastly convincing, too, followed by a snap of the teeth and the gleam of some high, heroic purpose. So we managed to get the able little _Greased Lightning_ into the thick of it--merrily into the howl and gray frown of that ill-minded sea--and, though wind and sea, taking themselves seriously, conspired to smother her, we made jolly reaches to the nor'ard, albeit under double reefs, and came that night to Poor Luck Harbour, where the doctor's sloop was waiting. There we bade good-bye to the mood-stricken Docks, and a short farewell to Skipper Billy, who must return into the service of the Government doctors from St. Johns, now, at last, active in the smallpox ports. And next morning, the wind having somewhat abated in the night, the doctor and I set sail for our harbour, where, two days later, with the gale promising to renew itself, we dropped anchor: my dear sister, who had kept watch from her window, now waiting on my father's wharf.

It seemed to me then--and with utmost conviction I uttered the feeling abroad, the while perceiving no public amus.e.m.e.nt--that the powers of doctors were fair witchlike: for no sooner had my sweet sister swallowed the first draught our doctor mixed--nay, no sooner had it been offered her in the silver spoon, and by the doctor, himself--than her soft cheek turned the red of health, and her dimples, which of late had been expressionless, invited kisses in a fas.h.i.+on the most compelling, so that a man of mere human parts would swiftly take them, though he were next moment hanged for it. I marvel, indeed, that Doctor Luke could resist them; but resist he did: as I know, for, what with lurking and peeping (my heart being anxiously enlisted), I took pains to discover the fact, and was in no slight degree distressed by it. For dimples were made for kissing--else for what?--and should never go unsatisfied; they are so frank in pleading that 'twould be sheer outrage for the lips of men to feel no mad desire: which, thank G.o.d! seldom happens. But, then, what concern have I, in these days, with the identical follies of dimples and kissing?

”'Tis a wonderful clever doctor,” said I to my sister, my glance fixed in amazement on her glowing cheeks, ”that we got in Doctor Luke.”

”Ah, yes!” she sighed: but so demure that 'twas not painful to hear it.

”An', ecod!” I declared, ”'tis a wonderful clever medicine that he've been givin' you.”

”Ecod! Davy Roth,” she mocked, a sad little laugh in her eyes, ”an'

how,” said she, ”did you manage to find it out?”

”Bessie!” cried I, in horror. ”Do you stop that swearin'! For an you don't,” I threatened, ”I'll give you----”

”Hut!” she flouted. ”'Tis your own word.”