The rain-swept Kittiwake rounded the red-light buoy and checked down.
“There’s no light in the house. She has milked the cow, and eaten her supper, and gone to bed like a good girl.”
“Doctor, she doesn’t expect you home tonight. My tent is waterproof. Come and sleep on the ground.”
So they crept into the harbor and thence into the tent. The doctor stripped to the skin, nibbed his wiry old muscles dry, and suspended his dripping weeds, uttering an appropriate remark from Horace.
He clad himself in Marvin’s other pyjamas and wrapped himself with a blanket, but not till he had taken from his wet coat a precious little amulet to dry it. It was a perfect thing of its sort—a tiny gunboat done in pine and colored.
Meantime Marvin had kindled a fire of pine cones under the projection of the tent-fly. He got out some pilot bread, and made some hot chocolate. He spread his little feast on her totem board, and they ate with Homeric gusto.
Later they crept under the blankets.
“This makes me think of old times. My father sometimes took me with him on his prospecting trips.”
“Marvin, it makes me think of old times, too. But Horatio often came to bed half crying with the fatigue of the day. When you have children of your own you will know more about paternal love. Sometimes a little boy needs to be comforted. Think of it! For a time you stand like a god, your knowledge unquestioned, and comfort comes by comforting. For sheer earthly joy, I could wish to have Horatio sobbing on my breast once more.”
There was silence in the darkness, while the rain fell drowsily on the tent.