He could say no more, but, laying his head like a little child on the broad bosom of his rescuer, he burst into a passionate flood of tears.
Albeit strong of will, and not by any means given to the melting mood, our hero was unable for a minute or two to make free use of his voice.
“Come, now, Shank, old man, you mustn’t give way like that. You wouldn’t, you know, if you had not been terribly reduced by illness—”
“Yes, I would! yes, I would!” interrupted the sick man, almost passionately; “I’d howl, I’d roar, I’d blubber like a very idiot, I’d do any mortal thing, if the doing of it would only make you understand how I appreciate your great kindness in coming out here to save me.”
“Oh no, you wouldn’t,” said Charlie, affecting an easy off-hand tone, which he was far from feeling; “you wouldn’t do anything to please me.”
“What d’ye mean?” asked Shank, with a look of surprise.
“Well, I mean,” returned the other, gently, “that you won’t even do such a trifle as to lie down and keep quiet to please me.”
A smile lighted up the emaciated features of the sick man, as he promptly lay back at full length and shut his eyes.
“There, Charlie,” he said, “I’ll behave, and let you do all the talking; but don’t let go my hand, old man. Keep a tight grip of it. I’m terrified lest you drift off again, and—and melt away.”
“No fear, Shank. I’ll not let go my hold of you, please God, till I carry you back to old England.”