"What—no Book!"
"I need nane. What for?"
"Why, for me, of course. It's a remedy for all ills, they say.... I'm surprised at your not trying it on."
They made a picture there by the rail in a strong glint of sunlight—the chief, squatted on a bollard like a grim and battered Moses giving the law; Sutton, dapper in fresh ducks, his hands in his pockets, swaying easily to the ship's motion.
Wickwire seemed to reflect. "Aye, it's a grand book, nae doot, but wad ye listen? I been watchin' ye, laddie—I ken ye better than maybe ye think."
"Much obliged, I'm sure," said Sutton pertly.
"Aye, there it is, ye see. Ye never tak' the straight way wi' life. But what I dinna just ken is this: are ye a'thegither past the reach o' good words for remedy? Puttin' aside the false glitter, could ever ye cast the beam from yer eye an' listen how hell gapes for ye?"
"I might," said Sutton. "You haven't a notion how I enjoy hearing about it. You might read to me."
I was startled then to see the depth of yearning in Wickwire's regard, to see his hands knotting and twisting one in the other. However it might be with the mate, it was no play with him; he was wrung with pity as toward an erring son, or toward some younger memory of himself, perhaps—for Sutton had this appeal.
"Suppose I should tell ye now I canna read the heid o' one printed word frae the hurdies o' it?"