Then we went on with our work, thinking no more about him till two days later up he turns again, comes down to the cabin of the Greyhound, pulls out a big handkerchief, blows his nose and wipes his eyes and starts his batteries.
“Me child’s going to die,” says he. “Oh, it’s the cruel disease as has caught hold of her; it’s only trotting now, but once it begins to gallop Dr. Hennassy says he won’t give her a fortnight. Nothing will save her, he says, but a long sea voyage away from excitement with the good God’s ozone round her. Steamships is no good, and there’s nothing in ’Frisco but Cape Horners and timber ships. Buck, you’re me nephew, and by the same token you had the old Greyhound out of me for next to nothing, though I’m not worryin’ about that. Take her for a trip and I’ll pay the expenses; she can take the old Kanaka mammy with her, that brought her up, to look after her. If it’s ten thousand dollars you can have it, but get her out into God’s good ozone, away off to Honolulu and away round that way for a six months’ trip; fling your cargo in the harbour,” he says, “and I’ll pay, for it’s me house is on fire and me child is burnin’, and what do I care for money where her life is concerned.”
“Sure,” said Buck, “I’d take her jumping, but well you know I’m under contract, and as for throwing the cargo in the harbour, barring what the Port Authorities would say, it’s not mine to throw.”
“Well,” says the old man, “take her along with you, cargo and all; you’ve got an after cabin you don’t use with two bunks in it, that will do for them. You two bunk here in the main cabin, don’t you? Well, there you are, and I’ll pay you a thousand dollars for the trip.”
“Not a cent,” says Buck. “I don’t eat my relations when they’re in trouble. If I take her she goes free—and, sure, how am I to refuse to take her seeing what you say?”
“That’s me brave boy,” says Pat, “the true son of me sister Mary, God rest her soul.”
Then when we’d done some more talk he goes off.
“Well,” I says to Buck, “here’s a nice cargo.”
I’ve told you Buck was married to a woman who had run away from him. He’d never bothered to get divorced from her, fearing if he got amongst lawyers, he’d be sure to be robbed, and feeling that, as he didn’t ever want to get married again, buying a divorce would be like a chap with no heart for music buying a concertina.
“Well,” I says, rubbing it into him, “here’s a nice cargo. I’m no marrying man, and you’re hitched, so what’s the good of her; a thousand dollars won’t pay us for freightage, and if there’s a scratch on her when we get back, there’ll be hell to pay with Pat. S’pose she dies on us?” I says.