"Um—no," the man answered. "Not for some time, anyway."
"Then I wish you would go back to the house and tell them," Betty said. "They'll be worrying. I'll stay here."
"I suppose it would be as well," he agreed. "I'll come back."
"There's no need for either of you to stay here," MacRae said wearily. "You've stopped the bleeding, and you can't do any more. Go home and go to bed. I'm as well alone."
There was a brief interval of silence. MacRae heard footsteps crossing the floor, receding, going down the steps. He opened his eyes. Betty Gower sat on a low box by his bed, her hands in her lap, looking at him wistfully. She leaned a little toward him.
"I'm awfully sorry," she whispered.
"So was the little boy who cut off his sister's thumb with the hatchet," MacRae muttered. "But that didn't help sister's thumb. If you'll run down to old Peter Ferrara's house and tell him what has happened, and then go home yourself, we'll call it square."
"I have already done that," Betty said. "Dolly is away. The fishermen are bringing Steve Ferrara's body to his uncle's house. They are going to try to save what is left of your boat."
"It is kind of you, I'm sure, to pick up the pieces," MacRae gibed.
"I am sorry," the girl breathed.