He rose.
“Tom,” said I, “do you take Timmie Lovejoy an’ Will Watt with you. You’ll need un both t’ sail the skiff.”
“I’m thankin’ you, Davy, lad,” said he. “’Tis kind o’ you t’ spare them.”
“An’ I’m wishin’ you well.”
He picked at a thread in his cap. “No,” he persisted, doggedly, “she were so wonderful scared o’ hell she fair couldn’t come t’ harm. I brung her up too well for that. But,” with a frown of anxious doubt, “the Jagger crew was aboard, bound home t’ Newf‘un’land. An’—well—I’m troubled. They was drunk—an’ Jagger was drunk—an’ I asked un about my maid—an’....”
“Would he tell you nothing?” the doctor asked.
“Well,” said Tom, turning away, “he just laughed.”
We were at that moment distracted by the footfall of men coming in haste up the path from my father’s wharf. ’Twas not hard to surmise their errand. My sister sighed—I ran to the door—the doctor began at once to get into his boots and greatcoat. But, to our surprise, two deck-hands from the mail-boat pushed their way into the room. She had returned (said they) and was now waiting off the Gate. There was need of a doctor aboard. Need of a doctor! What of the mail-boat doctor? Ah, ’twas he who was in need. My heart bounded to hear it! And how had he come to that pass? He had essayed to turn in—but ’twas rough water outside—and he had caroused with Jagger’s crew all the way from Wayfarer’s Tickle—and ’twas very rough water—and he had fallen headlong down the companion—and they had picked him up and put him in his berth, where he lay unconscious.
’Twas sweet news to me. “You’ll not go?” I whispered to the doctor.
He gave me a withering glance—and quietly continued to button his greatcoat.