He struggled again. Then his strength and his reason left him simultaneously and the delirium returned. He began to shout a name, a name that caused Ellery to stand upright and step back from the bed, scarcely believing his ears.
All the rest of that night the man on the bed raved and muttered, but of people and places and happenings which he had not mentioned before. And the minister, listening intently to every word, caught himself wondering if he also was not losing his mind.
When the morning came, Ebenezer Capen was awakened by a shake to find John Ellery standing over him.
“Capen,” whispered the minister, “Capen, get up. I must talk with you.”
Ebenezer was indignant.
“Judas priest!” he exclaimed; “why don't you scare a feller to death, comin' and yankin' him out of bed by the back hair?” Then, being more wide awake, he added: “What's the row? Worse, is he? He ain't—”
“No. But I've got to talk with you. You used to be a whaler, I know. Were you acquainted in New Bedford?”
“Sartin. Was a time when I could have located every stick in it, pretty nigh, by the smell, if you'd set me down side of 'em blindfold.”
“Did you ever know anyone named—” He finished the sentence.
“Sure and sartin, I did. Why?”