“And Shanter, father,” shouted Rifle.
“Yes, and the trusty black whom I so unjustly doubted.”
“Marmi want Shanter?” said the black, thrusting in his head.
“Yes: that settles it, captain,” said the doctor. “I don’t wonder at it. I wouldn’t give up in your place.—Will you speak now, Henley?”
“No, no, go on. I can’t talk,” said the young planter, colouring.
“Very well then, I will.—Then the fact is, Captain Bedford, my friend Henley here is not satisfied with his land at Port Haven. He can sell it advantageously to a new settler, and he has seen that tract next to yours, one which, I agree with him, looks as if it was made for sugar. Miss Henley, his sister, is on her way out to keep house for him, so he will get one up as quickly as possible.”
“Yes,” said Henley, “that’s right. Now tell ’em about yourself.”
“Of course,” said the doctor, quietly. “My sister is coming out with Miss Henley, and I have elected to take up the tract yonder across the river, adjoining yours.”
“You?” said the captain. “Where will you get your patients?”
“Oh, I am sure to have some. Here’s one already,” he said, laughingly. “I mean to dress that poor fellow’s burns.”