“Blast the doctor!... Sshh! Let me think. Does Reliance know about it?”
“Sartin. Of course she does. She—”
“Yes, yes. Of course she does. That is what she’s had on her mind. Humph! I knew there was something. Thacher hasn’t got his papers yet, has he?”
“No. But I guess he has just as good as got ’em. He is expecting them any time.”
“Humph! Expecting is one thing and getting is another. There, there! Don’t talk any longer. Clear out. I’ve got to think—yes, and do.”
“But, Foster, what can you do? What can anybody do? And you aren’t fit to—”
“Sshh! You haven’t been to my funeral yet, have you? No. Well, neither has Mooney. Run along, Ben, run along! And say, don’t you tell a soul that I know anything about this. Reliance especially; don’t you tell her.”
Captain Snow left his friend’s house in a peculiar state of mind. His conscience troubled him a little. Foster Townsend was still far from strong. If, under the spur of this disclosure, he should attempt exertions which brought about a relapse, he—Snow—would be to blame. And, after all, what had been gained by telling? Nothing could be done. As he had just said, what could any one do? Nevertheless, amid Captain Ben’s perturbations there was a faint trace of unreasonable hope. For many years he, like so many other Harniss citizens, had depended upon Foster Townsend to steer their ship through the shoals of politics. And the trust had never been misplaced. Of course, now, everything was different. Yet the captain could not help hoping—a little.
That evening, just before he went up to his room, Townsend astonished his housekeeper by announcing that he desired an early breakfast. “Have it ready at six,” he ordered. “And tell Varunas to have the horse and buggy at the door as soon as I’ve finished. I want to make the quarter to seven train.”
Nabby stared at him, horror-stricken.