“But we won’t die there, please God—at least, I won’t, if I can help it. You’ll not need to, I hope. We’re colonials: this is our country.”
The girl turned to go indoors, but, a sudden impulse seizing her, she put her arms around the old man’s neck, and kissed his weather-beaten cheek.
“What’s been troubling you, father? I’ll drive the worry away.” She held his rough hand in hers, and waited for him to speak.
“You’re a good gal, Rosebud; you’re a great comfort. But, Lord bless me, you’re as sensitive as a young fawn. There’s nothing the matter with me, except when now and again I get a fit of the blues; but you’ve drove ’em away, da’rter; you’ve drove ’em clean away. Now, just you run in and attend to your house; and leave me to go into town, where I’ve a bit of business to attend to—there’s a good gal.” He kissed his daughter’s smooth, white forehead, and she ran indoors, smiling and happy.
The Pilot resettled the peaked cap on his head, stumped down the garden-path, and passed out of his gate and along the road. His steps led him to the main street of the town, where he entered the Kangaroo Bank, the glass doors of which swung noiselessly behind him, and he stood in front of the exquisite clerk of Semitic origin, who dealt out and received over the broad counter the enormous wealth of the opulent institution.
“Good morning, Captain Summerhayes.”
“’Mornin’,” said the Pilot, as he fumbled in the inside pocket of his coat.
At length he drew out the draft and handed it to the clerk, who turned it over, and said, “Please endorse it.”
The old sailor took a pen, and with infinite care wrote his name on the back of the document.
When the clerk was satisfied that everything was in order, he said, “Two-hundred-and-fifty pounds. How will you take it, Captain?”