VI
The MAN on The MAIL-BOAT
It was in the dusk of a wet night of early June, with the sea in a tumble and the wind blowing fretfully from the west of north, that the mail-boat made our harbour. For three weeks we had kept watch for her, but in the end we were caught unready—the lookouts in from the Watchman, my father’s crew gone home, ourselves at evening prayer in the room where my mother lay abed. My father stopped dead in his petition when the first hoarse, muffled blast of the whistle came uncertain from the sea, and my own heart fluttered and stood still, until, rising above the rush of the wind and the noise of the rain upon the panes, the second blast broke the silence within. Then with a shaking cry of “Lord God, ’tis she!” my father leaped from his knees, ran for his sea-boots and oilskins, and shouted from below for my sister to make ready his lantern. But, indeed, he had to get his lantern for himself; for my mother, who was now in a flush of excitement, speaking high and incoherently, would have my sister stay with her to make ready for the coming of the doctor—to dress her hair, and tidy the room, and lay out the best coverlet, and help on with the dainty nightgown.
“Ay, mother,” my sister said, laughing, to quiet her, “I’ll not leave you. Sure, my father’s old enough t’ get his own lantern ready.”
“The doctor’s come!” I shouted, contributing a lad’s share to the excitement. “He’ve come! Hooray! He’ve come!”
“Quick, Bessie!” cried my mother. “He’ll be here before we know it. And my hair is in a fearful tangle. The looking-glass, lassie——”
I left them in the thick of this housewifely agitation. Donning my small oilskins, as best as I could without my kind sister’s help—and I shed impatient tears over the stiff button-holes, which my fingers would not manage—I stumbled down the path to the wharf, my exuberant joy escaping, the while, in loud halloos. There I learned that the mail-boat lay at anchor off the Gate, and, as it appeared, would not come in from the sea, but would presently be off to Wayfarer’s Tickle, to the north, where she would harbour for the night. The lanterns were shining cheerily in the dark of the wharf; and my father was speeding the men who were to take the great skiff out for the spring freight—barrels of flour and pork and the like—and roundly berating them, every one, in a way which surprised them into unwonted activity. Perceiving that my father’s temper and this mad bustle were to be kept clear of by wise lads, I slipped into my father’s punt, which lay waiting by the wharf-stairs; and there, when the skiff was at last got underway, I was found by my father and Skipper Tommy Lovejoy.
“Ashore with you, Davy, lad!” said my father. “There’ll be no room for the doctor. He’ll be wantin’ the stern seat for hisself.”