“Let’s go down into the town,” said Uncle Luke, jumping up suddenly.
Leslie rose without a word, and looked wonderingly at the old man, who, with his eyes shaded by his hands, was gazing along the rugged coast towards where, looking like dolls, a couple of fishermen were standing by something lying on a pebbly patch of sand.
Leslie looked at Uncle Luke, but the old man avoided his gaze, as if unwilling to lay bare his thoughts, and together they walked pretty quickly down the steep slope.
“Yes,” said Uncle Luke; “the doctor says he will pull him through.”
“Mr Van Heldre?”
“Yes. Why don’t you go and see him?”
“I have sent to ask again and again, but I felt that any call on my part in the midst of such trouble would be out of place.”
“Walk faster,” said the old man excitedly, “if you can. No. Let me go on alone. Look at them—running. Look!”
Leslie had already noted the fact, and out of respect for the old man he stopped short at once, with the result that Uncle Luke stopped too.
“Why don’t you come on?” he cried. “Good heavens, man, what can I do alone? There, there, Leslie, it’s of no use, I can play the cynic no longer. Man is not independent of his fellows I never felt more in need of help than I do now.”