Lita's brown hand touched him on the shoulder.
'Wassa th' matter, Tom, wis you?'
'Oh, go away, for God's sake, Lita, there's a good girl. Leave me alone. Go to church, and tell Ioane I'll give him a couple of dollars not to ring that damned, infernal bell again to-day. I'm going mad! I'll get drunk, I think, like Ransom. My God! just think of it, girl! Twelve months without a ship, and this hateful, God-forsaken island turning into a pest-house.'
'Wasa is pesta-house, Tom?'
'Place where they put people in to die—lazzaretto, charnel-house, morgue, living grave! Oh, go away, girl, go to the blarsted church if you want to, and leave me alone.'
Her slender fingers touched his hand timidly.
'I don' wan' go to church, Tom. I don' wan' leave you here to get mad an' lon'ly by yourse'f.'
'Very well, old woman, stay here with me. Perhaps a breeze may come by-and-by and then we can breathe. How many people died yesterday, Lita?'
''Bout nine, Tom—four men, tree woman, an' some child.'
'Poor devils! I wish I had some medicine for them. But I'm hanged if I know what it is—some sort of cholera brought here by that infernal American missionary brig, I believe. Hallo! there's Ioane beginning.'