“I ’low the steamer’ll soon be here.”
“Ay?”
“An’ then she’ll take the letter with the money.”
“Ay?”
“An’ she’ll be gone about a month an’ a fortnight, an’ then she’ll be back with–––”
“The cure!” cried Jimmie, giving his father 44 an affectionate dig in the ribs. “She’ll be back with the cure!”
“Go t’ sleep, lad.”
“I can’t,” Jimmie whispered. “I can’t for joy o’ thinkin’ o’ that cure.”
By and by the ice moved out, and, in good time, the steamer came. It was at the end of a blustering day, with the night falling thick. Passengers and crew alike––from the grimy stokers to the shivering American tourists––were relieved to learn, when the anchor went down with a splash and a rumble, that the “old man” was to “hang her down” until the weather turned “civil.”