Pat the Lighthouse Boy

by Evelyn Everett-Green

Pat was his slave in a moment, begging to be allowed to crawl round the room with the little prince on his back; and as this form of entertainment was mightily to the liking of the small guest, it was carried on uninterruptedly till Nat came down from the lighthouse, and laughed aloud to see the two children thus occupied.

"What! is he turning a little tyrant already?" asked the father, as he picked up the rider, and lifted him high in the air, laughing and shouting in glee at this sudden change in the game. "So, Pat, my boy, you are awake at last! We thought you had turned into one of the seven sleepers, whoever they may be; and this young man, too, though he woke up the first, and shows he has the making of a first-rate jack-tar in him. He's none the worse for a wetting that would have made an end of any landlubber. He must be cut out for a sailor—aren't you, my hearty?"

The child laughed, and danced up and down in those strong arms, and pulled Nat's beard, and shouted with glee. He was certainly none the worse, to all appearance, for the narrow escape of his life. Eileen marvelled at him, and her faith in her herbs and simples was tenfold increased. Perhaps Nature has secrets which are better known to the humble than the learned, for surely this unlettered woman, with her store of half-superstitious lore, gleaned in her girlhood from old women who were learned in the matter of Nature's cures, had achieved a result that many a medical man would have envied her. She was proud and delighted at her own success, and could hardly believe that any child could have gone through so much, and yet be so well and hearty twenty-four hours later.

"He was never born to be drowned—the little rogue—that's plain enough!" laughed Nat, as he took his seat at table, and gave the child to his wife. "And now let me have my tea as quick as you can, for there is double work up aloft since poor Jim is laid by his heels."

Pat stood beside his father, and waited on him with assiduity.

"How is poor Jim, and what is the matter with him? May I take him his tea? He will like it, I think, if I bring it."

"I think he will, sonny. He speaks of thee more than of any other. I scarce know what is the matter. It seems like as if he had broken a rib or two, and they were pressing inwards, somehow. He can't move without pain, and sometimes can scarce draw breath. But so long as he's lying still and quiet he seems fairly comfortable like. We must get a doctor to him as soon as ever we can. I've signalled ashore that we want help; but I'm afeard it will be some days before any boat can come anigh us."

Pat took the cup of tea and slice of buttered toast his mother had made, and went carefully with it to Jim's little dark room, which was not far away.

Jim was lying propped up with pillows, and there was a curious whiteness about his weather-beaten face, and a sunken look about his cheeks, which made Pat realise in a moment that he must be very ill. His heavy eyes, however, lightened at sight of the child, and he just moved his hand along the counterpane in token of greeting.