“Sure and Oi will, then,” Pat said, heartily, and he did, from beginning to end, omitting nothing.
When the tale was finished the doctor came again to have another look at his patient and was surprised and delighted at his improvement. “Why, at this rate we’ll have you up and around by this time day after to-morrow,” he cried. “What’s that?” as the stoker whispered something in his ear. “Why, yes, I guess he will come. I’ll give him your message, anyway, and see what he says.”
Then with a cheerful nod he left his patient to the enjoyment of a well-cooked, appetizing meal.
Half an hour later Bert, clad once more in dry, snug clothes, made his way hurriedly below to the stokers’ cabin. He had declined his friends’ offer to accompany him, for his instinct told him that the stoker would prefer to see him alone.
As he turned the knob of the door the stoker looked around inquiringly. Bert went forward quickly.
“I am Bert Wilson,” he said. “The doctor gave me your message and I came as soon as I could get a bite to eat.”
“It was very good of you to come, sir,” the man replied, nervously fumbling with a glass on the table at his elbow. “You see, I wanted to thank you and tell you how sorry I am that I gave you—any—trouble in the water.” His voice was scarcely above a whisper. “I can jist recollect, now, that I tried to—kill—you. Can you ever—forgive——”
“Forgive,” Bert interrupted. “Why, I have nothing to forgive, but if I had I would have forgiven and forgotten long ago.” Then he put out his hand impulsively and said in that frank, open way that was peculiarly his own, “You and I have gone through great danger together and have managed to pull through with nothing but a few scratches to tell the story. Shall we shake hands on it?”
“Well, you sure did get everything that was coming to you, Bert,” Tom said, as they were getting ready for bed that night. “You asked for excitement——”