“A ship’ll come, Joe, when God sees fit to send it,” said Ned.
Slag glanced at his comrade in surprise, the reply was so very unlike Ned’s usual style of speech that he felt uncertain whether it was uttered in earnest.
“The only thing I feel an awful longin’ for now, at times, is a bit o’ ’baccy,” continued Ned.
“So does I, Ned, an’ I sometimes think Dr Hayward has got the advantage of us there, for he never smoked, so he says, an’ in coorse it stands to reason that he can’t have no longin’ for a thing he don’t want—an’ he seems as jolly an’ happy as the best of us without it!”
“Ay, jollier and happier!” replied Ned, shortly.
“But, I say, Ned, don’t ye ever feel a longin’ for grog? Ye used to be raither fond of it.”
“No—not now, Joe. It’s the best thing as ever happened to me, bein’ cast on this here island—wi’ Dr Hayward to give a feller a word of advice.”
Slag, who felt a sort of self-righteous superiority over his comrade, inasmuch as he had never given way to drink, said, “You should be thankful for that, Ned.”
“I am thankful,” returned the other in a tone that induced Slag to say no more.
It was a very dark night, and cold, so that Black Ned involuntarily shuddered as he approached the beacon-fire alone—Joe having left him—and commenced to heap on fuel. Then rain began to fall heavily. There was no shelter, and the watchman was soon drenched to the skin. Heaping on more logs till the fire roared again, he tried to warm himself, and stood so close to the blaze that his garments smoked—they would have burnt had they not been wet—but no heat seemed to penetrate the shivering frame of Black Ned.