“I should like to stay and hear what he says, sir; and then—perhaps—I ought not to—I shall be—intruding—I ought to go away.”
“No, no,” said The Mackhai hastily; “certainly not. My boy would not wish you to leave him—that is, if you wish to stay.”
“May I?” cried Max, with such intense earnestness that his host looked at him wonderingly.
“I beg you will stay, Mr Blande,” he said; “and let’s hope that he will be better soon. By the way, I hope you will forget what you heard me say.”
Just then Kenneth turned uneasily upon his pillow, muttering quickly the while. Now he seemed to be talking to his dogs, now his words were a confused babbling, and then the occupants of the darkened room started as he burst into a fit of laughter, and said merrily,—
“No, no, Scoody; it’s too bad! Poor old Max!”
Max felt the blood rise to his cheeks and gradually pale away; and then, for quite two hours, father and visitor sat watching, the monotony of the vigil being broken by an occasional walk to a window, which commanded the sea, and at last Max was able to announce that the boat was in sight.
“Thank heaven!” muttered The Mackhai.
They had to wait for a full half-hour, though, before they could be satisfied that there was a third person in the boat—all doubt being set at rest by The Mackhai fetching his binocular, whose general use was for deerstalking, but by whose help he was able to see that the third party in the boat was a stern-looking, dark, middle-aged man, who might very well be the doctor.
The doctor it was, and, after a careful examination, he confirmed Tavish’s declaration.