Sandy gave a big sigh of relief and hastened away to Rory’s cabin.
Rory had been lying like a dead thing for hours, but now a new light seemed to come into his eye. He extended his hand to Sandy and smiled.
“We are positively under steam again, Sandy?” he said.
Sandy, like a wise surgeon, did not tell him the frost was quite gone. Joy kills, and Sandy knew it.
“Yes,” he said, carelessly, “we’ll get down south a few miles farther, I dare say. It is nice, though, isn’t it, to hear the old screw rattling round again?”
“Why, it is music, it is life?” said Rory. “Sandy, I’m going to be well again soon. I know and feel I am.”
Then Ralph burst into the cabin.
“I say, Sandy,” he said, “run and see dear old Allan; he says he is going to get up, and I know he is far, far too weak.”
Sandy had to pass through the saloon. Freezing Powders was sitting bolt upright in the corner, and Cockie was apparently mad with joy. The bird couldn’t speak fast enough, and he seemed bent on choking himself with hemp.
“Peter, Peter, Peter, Peter,” he was saying, “here’s a pretty, pretty, pretty to-do. Call the steward, call the steward. Come on, come on, come on.”