“But do you tell your father,” he went on, “that Jagger’s not sick.”
“Not sick?” cried Timmie, under his breath.
“Tell your father that I heared Jagger say he’d prove the doctor a coward or drown him.”
Timmie laughed.
“Tell un,” Jonas whispered, speaking in haste and great excitement, “that Jagger’s as hearty drunk as ever he was—loaded t’ the gunwale with rum an’ hate—in dread o’ the trade o’ broom-makin’—desperate t’ get clear o’ the business o’ the Jessie Dodd. Tell un he wants t’ drown the doctor atween your harbour an’ Wayfarer’s Tickle. Tell un t’ give no heed t’ the message. Tell un t’——”
“Oh, Lard!” Timmie gurgled, in a spasm of delight.
“Tell un t’ have the doctor stay at home ’til the weather lifts. Tell un——”
In response to an urgent call from the skipper, who was waiting at the small-boat, Timmie ran out. As he stumbled down the path, emitting guffaws and delicious chuckles, he conceived—most unhappily for us all—an infinitely humorous plan, which would still give him the delight of a rough passage to our harbour: for Timmie loved a wet deck and a reeling beat to windward, under a low, driving sky, with the night coming down, as few lads do. Inform the skipper? Not Timmie! Nor would he tell even Jacky. He would disclose the plot at a more dramatic moment. When the beat was over—when the schooner had made harbour—when the anchor was down—when the message was delivered—in the thick of the outcry of protest against the doctor’s high determination to venture upon the errand of mercy—then Timmie Lovejoy, the dramatic opportunity having come, would, with proper regard for his own importance, make the astounding revelation. It would be quite thrilling (he thought); moreover, it would be a masterly joke on his father, who took vast delight in such things.
“The wind’s veerin’ t’ the s‘uth’ard,” said the skipper, anxiously, while they put a double reef in the mainsail. “’Twill be a rough time across.”
“Hut! dad,” Timmie answered. “Sure, you can make harbour.”