"'Twill save us peril."
"I've no great objection t' peril in her service. I'll not open the telegram; I'll not intrude on the poor maid's secrets. Is you comin' along?"
Sandy Rowl put a hand on Tommy Lark's shoulder.
"What moves you," said he impatiently, "to a mad venture like this, with the day as far sped as it is?"
"I'm impelled."
"What drives you?"
"The maid's sick."
"Huh!" Sandy scoffed. "A lusty maid like that! She's not sick. As for me, I'm easy about her health. She's as hearty at this minute as ever she was in her life. An' if she isn't, we've no means o' bein' sure that she isn't. 'Tis mere guess-work. We've no certainty of her need. T' be drove out on the ice o' Scalawag Run by the guess-work o' fear an' fancy is a folly. 'Tis not demanded. We've every excuse for lyin' the night at Point-o'-Bay Cove."
"I'm not seekin' excuse."
"You've no need to seek it. It thrusts itself upon you."