(Re-enter Mary, R., half supporting Captain Miller, who tries to walk; he sits down near the table wearily.)
Capt. M. (feebly). It’s no use, Mary, I can’t walk. I can’t use my legs a mite, and that’s a fact. The malaria has settled in them, and I don’t know as I shall ever walk again.
Mary (stands beside him, and keeps her eye on the vessel’s course). Yes, you will, dear. The doctor says so; and he says you must get away from the boat, go into the mountains and stay awhile, and then you will be as well as ever.
Capt. M. Oh, Mary! If I could only go to New England. I feel as if it would cure me. If I could only go to Maine, and see the White Hills, all covered with snow on top, from behind father’s house, see mother, and have some of their good victuals—(He breaks down.)
Mary. You shall go. It won’t cost any more to go there than it will to pay your board at some place near the mountains; and no matter if it does.
Capt. M. How can I leave the vessel? If I take the money to go East with, I shan’t be able to meet my payments, and shall lose my chance of buying into her.
Mary (to Patsy). Ease her off a couple of points. (To William) Never mind that! Don’t worry. It’s better to lose everything else than to lose your health. But you will not lose the boat. I can run her while you’re gone. Only three months! The doctor says he thinks that will do.
Capt. M. I don’t know about your running the boat, Mary. Ours is a thousand-mile trip, you know, next time, and it’s easier to come down than it is to go up. The Yellow-red winds like a corkscrew.
Mary. I know that, William; but I think I can manage her. I have done it; and here we are safe so far, and no accident yet.
Capt. M. (considering). This cargo is secure, and the next one all promised. But I hate to leave you, Mary, and the baby.