“Well,” Skipper Tom drawled, rising, “we was thinkin’ we’d sort o’ like t’ see the doctor.”
“I am he,” the doctor snapped. “Yes?” inquiringly.
“We was wonderin’, doctor,” Skipper Tom answered, abashed, “what you’d charge t’ go t’ Wreck Cove an’—an’—well, use the knife on a man’s hand.”
“Charge? Nonsense!”
“We’d like wonderful well,” said the skipper, earnestly, “t’ have you——”
“But—to-night!”
“You see, zur,” said the skipper, gently, “he’ve wonderful pain, an’ he’ve broke everything breakable that we got, an’ we’ve got un locked in the fo’c’s’le, an’——”
“Where’s Wreck Cove?”
“’Tis t’ the s‘uth’ard, zur,” one of the men put in. “Some twelve miles beyond the Thirty Devils.”
The doctor opened the kitchen door and stepped out. There was no doubt about the weather. A dirty gale was blowing. Wind and rain drove in from the black night; and, under all the near and petty noises, sounded the great, deep roar of breakers.