“I’m wantin’ t’ go home,” I moaned.
He gathered me closer in his arms. “Do you stay your grief, Davy,” he whispered, “afore you goes.”
“I’m wantin’ t’ go home,” I sobbed, “t’ my mother!”
Timmie and Jacky came near, and the one patted my hand, and the other put an arm around me.
“Sure, the twins ’ll take you home, Davy,” said the skipper, softly, “when you stops cryin’. Hush, lad! Hush, now!”
They were tender with me, and I was comforted; my sobs soon ceased, but still I kept my head against the skipper’s breast. And while there I lay, there came from the sea—from the southwest in a lull of the wind—breaking into the tender silence—the blast of a steam whistle, deep, full-throated, prolonged.
“Hist!” whispered Jacky. “Does you not hear?”
Skipper Tommy stood me on my feet, and himself slowly rose, listening intently.
“Lads,” he asked, his voice shaking, “was it the mail-boat?”
“No, zur!” the twins gasped.