The old soldier growled and muttered something below his breath, something far from flattering in regard to idle women who gossip on the beach.
“I will know,” gasped Stephen, shaking him by the arm with all his feeble strength. “You shall tell me. Did the doctor say such a thing?”
“In my opinion,” grumbled the Sergeant, “these men of medicine know little and their word is scarce worth believing.”
“But did he say it?” persisted Stephen. “I will have the truth.”
“I would sooner face a siege cannon belching smoke and fire,” muttered Branderby. Then he turned to Stephen and looked him fairly in the eyes. “We are both men,” he said steadily, “and a real man can bear a blow though it be a hard and bitter one. Yes, lad, he did say it.”
Stephen made no answer, for he had flung himself face downward upon the sand. One long terrible sob shook his thin body and then he lay still. The Sergeant’s hard, rough hand was laid over his clenched one.
“There are some that help the world forward by their strength of arm,” he said gently, “and some by their power of mind and will. We cannot all be of one kind or the other, for we know the world has need of both.”
The boy sat up. There was a flush on his thin cheek and his jaw was set firmly.
“We will not tell my mother that I know,” he began, “and perhaps some day—but oh,” he broke off, “my thought was always to be a sailor like my father and my grandfather and my Cousin Amos, to sail mighty ships like the Margeret to the farthest foreign ports. But now—I shall be fit only to launch such vessels as Peter sails.”
His brave voice did not tremble but the hand in Branderby’s shook.