"Rot!" Andrew exclaimed gruffly, trying to hide his alarm. "You've been as bad before."
"No; not quite. But wait—"
Dick closed his eyes, and Andrew saw his fears reflected in Whitney's look. Dick's face was chalky-white and haggard, and they noted his labored breathing.
The tide splashed against the yacht's planks, the halyards had begun to tap against the mast, and there was a sharp rattle of blocks as the fisherman hoisted sail. They let him go and sat watching Dick from the opposite locker. Presently he looked up.
"Think I can talk a bit now. You'll have Appleyard, Andrew, if I don't get well. There's nothing to be said about that, because you'll look after it much better than I should have done. Still, you'll keep the old hands until you can pension them; and there's Bob, my old pony—I shouldn't like him sold."
"You're taking too much for granted, Dick," Andrew replied. "You knocked yourself out in hurrying down here to warn me, but you'll be all right again in a few days."
"I know you hope so. It's possible, too; but we'll get things straightened up. Of course, Appleyard is Mrs. Woodhouse's home—she's not responsible for her brother, you know. Elsie will keep everything right unless she marries." Dick paused and looked at Andrew with a feeble smile. "She may, you know."
Andrew turned his head, and after a minute, Dick went on:
"I'd like my debts paid off, but the estate must not be robbed. If you open my desk, you'll find an old pocket-book. It will show you what I actually got. Pin them down to that. Now give me a little more whisky."
Dick rested for a short while before he continued.