“Luck goes in streaks, lad,” said Captain Summerhayes. “You struck a bad one when you set sail with Sartoris here. I don’t mean no offence to you, Captain; but I do not, never did, and never shall, admire the way you handled The Mersey Witch.”
“Go on,” remarked Sartoris; “rub it in. I can bear it.”
“Having got into a bad streak, Jack, you must expect it to stick to you for a time. I did think as how you’d lost it when you come home with all that gold. But, you see, I was right at first; you’re in it yet. There’s no cure but to bear it. An’ that you will, lad, like the man you are.”
“We’ve come to cheer you up, Jack,” said Sartoris, “an’ I hope we’ve done it. But there’s one thing that I believe is usual in these cases, an’ that’s a sky-pilot. I have heard as how a sky-pilot’s more comfortin’ to a man in gaol than anything else. What’s your special brand? What kind do you fancy? I’m ashamed to say we’ve talked so little religion, Jack, that I don’t know what religious crew you signed on with when you was young, but if there’s any special breed o’ parson you fancy, you’ve only got to give him a name, and if he lives in this town or within a radius of ten miles, he shall come an’ minister to you reg’lar, or I’ll know the reason why.”
During this remarkable speech, Rose had quietly slipped out of the cell and, with her empty basket on her arm, had turned her steps homeward.
On rounding a corner of a street in the centre of the town, she almost ran into Rachel Varnhagen.
“Well, well, well, where have you been?” was the Jewess’s greeting, as she stopped to talk to Rose.
“I’ve been to the gaol.”
“To the gaol! Goodness, what for?”
Rose did not reply.