“Well, if you’d take my advice,” returned Billy, “you’d give him another pair. A cuff on each side of his head would do him a world of good.”
Gunter turned sharply to make a grasp at his young tormentor, but the lad had taken care to have the cabin table between them, and at once sprang laughing up the companion.
“He’s a smart boy, that,” remarked the mission skipper.
“Rather too smart,” growled Gunter, as he pocketed his salve and cuffs, and went on deck.
“Smart enough!” remarked David Bright with a low chuckle of satisfaction.
“Come now,” said the Missionary, “you’ll stop and have some coffee or cocoa with us. You can’t work wi’ that hand, you know. Besides, there’ll be no fishin’ till this calm’s over. So we mean to have a little meetin’ in the afternoon. We’re in luck too, just now,” he added in a lower voice, “for we’ve got a real parson aboard. That’s him talkin’ to my mate. He’s here on a visit—partly for his health, I believe—a regular clergyman of the Church of England and a splendid preacher, let me tell you. You’ll stop, now, won’t you?”
David Bright’s countenance grew sad. The memory of his recent failure and fall came over him.
“What’s the use o’ me attendin’ your meetin’s?” he said, almost angrily; “my soul’s past recovery, for I don’t believe in your prayin’ an’ psalm-singin’.”
“You trusted me freely wi’ your hand, David, though I’m no surgeon. Why won’t you trust me a little wi’ your soul, though I’m no parson—especially as it seems to be in a very bad way by your own account? Have a talk wi’ the parson. He’s got such a way with him that he’s sure to do you good.”
It was not so much the words thus spoken as the grave, kind, sensible tones and looks which accompanied them, that won the despairing fisherman.