"Ah!" said Jimmy, with a little indrawing of his breath. "Still, it is only what I expected, and I suppose I must face it. You are quite sure about that shock?"
The doctor looked at him curiously. "I want you to understand that it probably brought about the climax, though such things don't often happen in the case of a vigorous man. Your father has, I should fancy, in ordinary language, been losing his grip for several years. In his case the natural decline of physical strength has, perhaps, been accelerated by undue anxiety, and——"
He hesitated, and Jimmy made a quick sign of comprehension. "Oh, yes," he said, "I know. Still, I'm not sure that anybody could blame him, under the circumstances. Well, I think the thing that brought about the climax has been steadily preparing him to break down under it; but, after all, that does not concern you."
The doctor, who admitted this, gave him certain directions before he went away, and Jimmy descended to the little cabin where Tom Wheelock lay. He looked up and nodded when his son came in.
"Well," he said, with a faint smile, "I guess by the names that doctor calls it, I've got enough to kill any man. Wouldn't talk quite straight, but I know as well as he does that I'm not going to worry you very long, and that's just as it should be. Merril takes the schooner, and you'll go back to the blue water. I was never good for very much, anyway, after your mother had gone. She stood behind me and kept things going."
Jimmy sat down, and, much as he desired it, could think of nothing apposite to say. He felt that there are occasions on which one should speak clearly, but, as not infrequently happens, it was just then that he was usually dumb. Perhaps Tom Wheelock understood this, for once more he smiled as he looked at him.
"I wouldn't worry about it, Jimmy," he said.
Jimmy was still tongue-tied, but one result of his father's observations was that fierce anger commenced to mingle with his distress, and he felt his nature stir in protest. Merril would take the Tyee—that could not be helped—but it seemed an insufferable thing that for the paltry value of the schooner he should have crushed this frail and broken man. Jimmy clenched a firm brown hand, and felt his fingers itch for a grip on the bondholder's throat.
There was silence for a while, intensified by the soft splash of ripples against the Tyee's planking, and Jimmy afterward remembered how his father's worn face showed up in the stream of light that shone down through the skylights into the shadowy cabin. He lay wrapped in old and dirty blankets, a worn-out and broken man who stood in the way of one who was stronger. He held an unlighted pipe in his limp and nerveless hand, and the cabin reeked with unsavory odors. It was unclean and wholly comfortless, and it seemed to Jimmy, who was fresh from the luxury of the mail-boats, almost horrible that the man to whom he owed his being should lie there in sordid misery. At last he straightened himself resolutely.
"There are several points to consider," he said. "The schooner will be sold—that's certain—and I must find a room for you ashore. It's fortunate that one difficulty can be got over. Men who can work seem to be in demand here just now, and when Merril sells the Tyee there ought to be a few dollars over."