“What’s left of him,” answered Jeff, with a faint smile.
“An’ it ain’t much!” returned Wilson, with a kind of gasp, as he approached softly.
“Not much more than the bones an’ clothes,” said Jeff, with a laugh at his friend’s expression; “also,” he added more seriously, “a good deal of the spirit, thank God. How are all the lads, Wilson?”
The man tried to answer, but could not. The sight of his old stalwart chum so reduced was too much for him. He could only go down on one knee, and take the thin large hand in his. Seeing this, Jeff returned his squeeze, and relieved him by saying—
“You can beat me now, Wilson, but I could squeeze till I made you howl once, and mayhap I’ll do it again—who knows? But you must not think me unkind if I ask you to leave me, Wilson. The Doctor is always insisting that I must keep quiet; so, good-day to you, my boy, an’ remember me kindly to my comrades.”
The next visitor, who appeared half an hour later, was the terrier dog of the station. Bounce belonged, of right, to David Bowers, but, being amiable, it acknowledged the part-ownership of all the men. On suddenly beholding Jeff, it rushed at him with a mingled bark and squeal of joy, and thereafter, for full two minutes, danced round him, a mass of wriggling hair from tip of tail to snout, in uncontrollable ecstasy. Mingled misery and surprise at Jeff’s sudden and unaccountable disappearance, prolonged agonies of disappointed expectation, the sickness of heart resulting from hope long deferred, all were forgotten in that supreme moment of joy at reunion with his long-lost human friend!
Jeff had to rise and sit down on a shelf of rock to escape some of Bounce’s overwhelming affection. Presently Bounce’s owner appeared, and went through something of a similar performance—humanised, however, and with more of dignity.
“I can’t tell ’ee how glad I am to see you again, Jeff,” said Bowers, sitting down beside him, and grasping his hand. “But oh, man, how thin—”
The huge coastguardsman choked at this point, as Wilson had done before him; but, being more ready of resource, he turned it into a cough, and declared, sternly, that night-work must have given him a cold, or “suthin’ o’ that sort.” After which he made a great demonstration of clearing his throat and blowing his nose.
“But you’ll soon be yours—at least, somethin’ like your old self, before long, Jeff. The doctor told us that, the last time he was at the station.”