With us, returned Molly and twenty-one rejuvenated old men, and—terrible anti-climax—nine cowardly octogenarians who were afraid to stay at Corisco and take their chance of again tasting the joys of new found youth.
It was a sad farewell. Molly looked more miserable than I had ever seen her. Sally was pale, red-eyed—but proudly defiant. Dr. Croft was quietly reproachful. Stringer was wistful and Old-Billish in the extreme. Gran'pa's expression was one of tragic majesty—a Napoleon giving up his Josephine—a martyr suffering for a great cause.
His nobility made me feel what a wretched worm I was. How happy I should have been to have stayed with them all in Corisco—the Beautiful! How I repented that rash promise which I had made to Sally!
As the anchor was weighed I went below, unable to take a farewell glance at the island. I was afraid of myself. A call from Gran'pa and I believe that I should have gone overboard and swum to the land. It was a moment when one must do everything—or nothing!
The engines throbbed and a distant cheer came from the receding shore. So great was my agony that I actually groaned.
For over an hour I remained below struggling with my emotions, and it was not until we had lost sight of land that I began to recover.
Merciful night drew her curtain at last; one by one the old men crept yawning to their bunks. Dead tired, I, too, sought solace in sleep. But even this was denied me.
In the early hours of the morning a terrific storm arose and the ship rolled and lurched through the water like a drunken animal. To add to my misery, I was horribly sick.
Perhaps it was as well. It helped me to forget.
For nearly two days I cared little what had happened or what might happen. Then came a sudden calm and, with it, the sense of peaceful recovery after a great illness.