"Here, don't do that," remonstrated Tom, springing forward. But it was too late, and the steward who attended to calls on the library stepped in.
"It isn't the hour for giving out books," he began.
Tom was stamping his foot impatiently, and scowling at Jasper, alternately casting longing glances out the nearest port-hole.
"It isn't books we want," said Jasper, quickly, "but this old gentleman"—whose head was now heavily sunken on his breast, and whose cheek was quite white—"appears to be very ill, and to need the doctor."
"Is that so?" The steward leaned over and peered into the old face. "Well, he doesn't look just right, and that's a fact. Is he your father?"
"Oh, no," said Jasper, quickly, "I don't know who he is. But, do hurry, for he's sick, and needs the doctor at once."
"I'll get Dr. Jones." Off ran the steward toward the surgeon's cabin.
"See what you've done," cried Tom, in a towering passion. "Kicked up a pretty mess—when I tell you I've seen my Grandfather just as bad a hundred times."
Jasper made no reply, and Polly continued to stroke gently the poor head.
"Well—well—well!" exclaimed Mr. King, coming in, "to be sure, it's very stupid in me not to think of looking in the library for both of you before. O dear me—bless me!" And he came to a dead stop of astonishment.