“Just none at all, not to mislead you,” said M'Cabe, in a voice quite devoid of its late whining intonation.
“Is there not a chaise or a car to be had?”
“Sorrow one. Dr. Dill has a car, to be sure, but not for hire.”
“Oh, Dr. Dill lives here. I forgot that. Go and tell him I wish to see him.”
The landlord withdrew in dogged silence, but returned in about ten minutes, to say that the doctor had been sent for to the “Fisherman's Home,” and Mr. Barrington was so ill it was not likely he would be back that night.
“So ill, did you say?” cried Conyers. “What was the attack,—what did they call it?”
“'T is some kind of a 'plexy, they said. He's a full man, and advanced in years, besides.”
“Go and tell young Mr. Dill to come over here.”
“He's just gone off with the cuppin' instruments. I saw him steppin' into the boat.”
“Let me have a messenger; I want a man to take a note up to Miss Barrington, and fetch my writing-desk here.”