“But you mustn’t try to see Fred,” she added. “The doctor says he must be kep’ quiet and see no one.”
“All right,” returned the skipper; “I’ll wait till he’s out o’ quarantine. Good day; I’ll go and tell Eve that you’re coming.”
On his way to Mrs Mooney’s hut Stephen Lockley had again to pass the Blue Boar. This time he did not give it “a wide berth.” There were two roads to the hut, and the shorter was that which passed the public-house. Trusting to the strength of his own resolution, he chose that road. When close to the blue monster, whose creaking sign drew so many to the verge of destruction, and plunged so many over into the gulf, he was met by Skipper Ned Bryce, a sociable, reckless sort of man, of whom he was rather fond. Bryce was skipper of the Fairy, an iron smack, which was known in the fleet as the Ironclad.
“Hullo! Stephen. You here?”
“Ay, a week before my time, Ned. That lubber Groggy Fox ran into me, cut down my bulwarks, and carried away my bowsprit an’ some o’ my top-hamper.”
“Come along—have a glass, an’ let’s hear all about it,” said Bryce, seizing his friend’s arm; but Lockley held back.
“No, Ned,” he said; “I’m on another tack just now.”
“What! not hoisted the blue ribbon, eh!”
“No,” returned Lockley, with a laugh. “I’ve no need to do that.”
“You haven’t lost faith in your own power o’ self-denial surely?”