“Not at all,” said the Captain hastily, noting the look in Mr. Mott's eyes. “But for fear you may think it was, I take it all back, Andrew.”
“I laid awake all last night worrying about how lonely and useless and unoccupied I'm going to be if we stick here on this island for any considerable length of time, not to say, always, and I made up my mind that if I had that kid to bring up, life would be sort of worth while. I'll probably live a good deal longer if I have something to live and work for. Ain't that so?”
“It certainly is,” agreed the Captain. “Do you mind my asking how you're going to feed it?”
“I've got that all attended to,” said Mr. Mott calmly. “I've been to see three of these women who've got tiny babies, and they've promised between 'em to nurse this one. It's all fixed, Captain. Of course, I don't know how it's going to work out, seeing as one of 'em is Spanish, one of 'em Portugee and the other a full-blooded Indian,—but they're all healthy.”
“It's very noble of you, Andrew,” said the Captain, laying his hand on the First Officer's shoulder.
“Absolutely not,” snapped Mr. Mott. “It's nothing but plain, rotten selfishness on my part,—and I don't give a damn who knows it.”
CHAPTER VI.
Inside of a fortnight after the events just chronicled, the women came ashore to occupy the practically completed huts.
The Doraine was deserted except for Captain Trigger and the half-dozen sailors who remained with him. These sailors were ancient tars whose lives had been spent at sea. They were grizzled, wizened old chaps. One of them, Joe Sands, had been an able seaman for forty-six years, and, despite a perpetual crick in the back, he insisted that he was still an abler seaman than ninety-five per cent, of the thirty-year-olds who followed the sea for a living. When Captain Trigger announced his resolve to stay on board, where he belonged, these vainglorious old seadogs elected to remain with him to the end.