“Leave the boy bide where he is,” Skipper Tommy put in. “Sure, he’ll do no harm, an’—an’—why, zur,” as if that were sufficient, “he’s wantin’ t’ go!”
I kept silent—knowing well enough that Skipper Tommy was the man to help a lad to his desire.
“Ay,” said my father, “but I’m wantin’ the doctor t’ be comfortable when he comes ashore.”
“He’ll be comfortable enough, zur. The lad’ll sit in the bow an’ trim the boat. Pass the lantern t’ Davy, zur, an’ come aboard.”
My father continued to grumble his concern for the doctor’s comfort; but he leaned over to pat my shoulder while Skipper Tommy pushed off: for he loved his little son, did my big father—oh, ay, indeed, he did! We were soon past the lumbering skiff—and beyond Frothy Point—and out of the Gate—and in the open sea, where the wind was blowing smartly and the rain was flying in gusts. My father hailed the steamer’s small-boat, inbound with the mail, to know if the doctor was in verity aboard; and the answer, though but half caught, was such that they bent heartily to the oars, and the punt gave a great leap and went staggering through the big waves in a way to delight one’s very soul. Thus, in haste, we drew near the steamer, which lay tossing ponderously in the ground-swell, her engines panting, her lamps bright, her many lights shining from port-hole and deck—all so cozy and secure in the dirty night: so strange to our bleak coast!
At the head of the ladder the purser stood waiting to know about landing the freight.
“Is you goin’ on?” my father asked.
“Ay—t’ Wayfarer’s Tickle, when we load your skiff.”
“’Twill be alongside in a trice. But my wife’s sick. I’m wantin’ t’ take the doctor ashore.”
“He’s aft in the smokin’-room. You’d best speak t’ the captain first. Hold her? Oh, sure, he’ll hold her all night, for sickness!”