“He’s brought it on himself,” I answered. “He heard us last night; and I’ll swear he’s been ready and waiting for us all the morning.”
“Well, look out for squalls, that’s all I can say,” said my friend; and, as he spoke, we reached the boat.
Rampick, busy over it, never even looked up as we came. But I could see his great hands trembling on the thwarts, as he leaned down.
“We want to pull out to the wreck, Mr. Rampick,” I faltered. “Can you let us have your boat?”
I essayed to exclude him, as a last resource. He did not raise his head, but answered in a heavy shaking voice from where he bent.
“Which it’s well known to you, sir, that my boat and me don’t part company.”
“It’s a special occasion, Mr. Rampick.”
He came up, with a sudden heaving together of all his bulk, and subsiding rigidly backwards against the gunwale, stood breathing softly, and staring with intense unblinking eyes, not at us, but at our companion.
So a cat stares at bay, crouching before a watchful snuffing dog. I don’t think he ever once looked at Harry or me. From that moment he seemed to focus all the panic of his haunted soul on the stranger who had come in our train. It was inexplicable, though in its way a relief to us for the time being—the sort of relief one feels when some deriding gutter urchin attracts from one to himself the unwelcome notice of the town drunkard.
“Which, it’s well known,” he whispered breathless.