“True, darling; but He means only such things as will do us good.”
“Of course, papa, if I asked for a bad thing, I would not expect Him to give me that.”
“Deliverance from death,” said the doctor, “is a good thing, yet we cannot be sure that God will grant our prayer for that.”
“There are worse things than death, doctor,” replied the captain; “it may be sometimes better for men to die than to live. It seems to me that we ought to use the words, ‘if it please the Lord,’ more frequently than we do in prayer. Deliverance from sin needs no such ‘if,’ but deliverance from death does.”
At this point the conversation was interrupted by Tim Rokens, who came up to the captain, and said respectfully—
“If ye please, sir, it ’ud be as well if ye wos to speak to the men; there’s somethin’ like mutiny a-goin’ on, I fear.”
“Mutiny! why, what about?”
“It’s about the spirits. Some on ’em says as how they wants to enjoy theirselves here as much as they can, for they won’t have much chance o’ doin’ so ashore any more. It’s my belief that fellow Tarquin’s at the bottom o’t.”
“There’s not much spirits aboard the wreck to fight about,” said the captain, somewhat bitterly, as they all rose, and hurried towards the hut. “I only brought a supply for medicine; but it must not be touched, however little there is.”
When the captain came up, he found the space in front of their rude dwelling a scene of contention and angry dispute that bade fair to end in a fight. Tarquin was standing before the first mate, with his knife drawn, and using violent language and gesticulations towards him, while the latter stood by the raft, grasping a handspike, with which he threatened to knock the steward down if he set foot on it. The men were grouped round them, some with looks that implied a desire to side with Tarquin, while others muttered “Shame!”