“Old country, eh?”
“My mother's,” said Bruce, soberly.
“I could have sworn it was my aunt's in Balleymena,” said Moore. “My aunt lived in a little stone cottage with roses all over the front of it.” And on he went into an enthusiastic description of his early home. His voice was full of music, soft and soothing, and poor Bruce sank back and listened, the glitter fading from his eyes.
The Duke and I looked at each other.
“Not too bad, eh?” said The Duke, after a few moments' silence.
“Let's put up the horses,” I suggested. “They won't want us for half an hour.”
When we came in, the room had been set in order, the tea-kettle was singing, the bedclothes straightened out, and Moore had just finished washing the blood stains from Bruce's arms and neck.
“Just in time,” he said. “I didn't like to tackle these,” pointing to the bandages.
All night long Moore soothed and tended the sick man, now singing softly to him, and again beguiling him with tales that meant nothing, but that had a strange power to quiet the nervous restlessness, due partly to the pain of the wounded arm and partly to the nerve-wrecking from his months of dissipation. The Duke seemed uncomfortable enough. He spoke to Bruce once or twice, but the only answer was a groan or curse with an increase of restlessness.
“He'll have a close squeak,” said The Duke. The carelessness of the tone was a little overdone, but The Pilot was stirred up by it.