“Yes,” said the sailor, “it is bad news. It is three months and more since we lost him; a heavy loss. A better sailor never sailed—nor a better man.”
There was silence for a minute.
“His wife! Puir body!” said Miss Jean.
“My mother is with her,” said the sailor. “They were wishing for you, Miss Jean, to tell her. I almost think she kenned what was coming.”
The young man seemed to forget where he was for the moment.
There were more questions asked, and more particulars given, and all the while the mate stood beside Miss Jean’s chair, making his answers clear and brief, and suffering no sympathetic friendliness to soften voice or manner, except when he spoke to Miss Jean.
“And are there any more sorrowful hearts in Portie the nicht?” asked she gravely. “Did a’ the lave win hame?”
“Saugster, the second mate, did not, nor two others. But nobody need grieve for Saugster. There was never less occasion. He’ll be home all right, I hope soon.”
And then he told how they had met in with an American fishing vessel partially disabled from encountering a heavy storm, and far out of her course. She had lost four of her men, one of them the mate, from the capsizing of a boat. The captain was down with fever, and the ship was at the mercy of the winds and waves as there was no one on board who had the knowledge or skill to sail her.
“We might have taken the rest of the men on board, but it would not have been right to abandon their ship, and as Tam Saugster and—two others were willing to go, there was nothing to be said. I dare say they are safe in Portland harbour by this time.”