“And Serge?”
“He is almost as old as I am.”
“How about Isaac?”
“Oh, Isaac is most twenty.”
“Well, Mr. Sims,” said the missionary, turning to the engineer, “I congratulate you on your crew.”
“Yes,” assented the man, gruffly, “they’re a pretty plucky lot of boys. We’ve been mighty short-handed, though, since the cap’n took sick, and Martin died, and my assistant was set ashore for mutiny, and I for one am powerful glad to see another white man come on board, even if he is a parson.”
Smiling at this equivocal compliment, the missionary asked if he might visit the captain, and was conducted by Phil to the sick man’s bedside. As they came away he said to the young mate: “Your captain is dangerously ill, and the sooner you get him to Anvik, where there is a doctor, the better. Therefore I would advise you to up anchor and make the run to-night, especially as I fear the river may close before morning.”