I saw, and in a moment we were climbing a decrepit stair. Groping our way along an unlighted passage, my guide, still clinging to my hand, turned sharply into the squalid home. It consisted evidently of two rooms, the inner of which contained the couch whereon lay Tim's sinking father.
The boy never stopped till he had led me to the very edge of the bed. A few tattered covers wrapped the form of the dying man. His face, already conforming to the stamp of death, told the story of a lifetime's sin. Nobody could look upon it without reading there the tokens of a life of passion and excess. The heavy eyes looked up sullenly into my face as I stood above him.
"It's the preacher, Gus—don't," pleaded a woman who bent above him; for his lips were framing some word she evidently feared my ears would catch. "Don't, Gus—he's goin' to help you if he can; Tim fetched him—he's the preacher from the Hollow, an' Tim seen him last Sunday."
The man's set features seemed to relax a little as I took his hand. I hesitated as to how I should best begin—but he opened the way himself.
"I'm all ready for sea, boss," he broke out with a gasping laugh; "last voyage, looks like—an' nobody don't know the port. But I've got my papers, Cap'n—I've got my papers, an' I'll have to sail."
"Don't mind him, sir," his wife said in a hushed voice; "he's an old sailor, you see—only two years since he quit the sea and come here to live. He got his left foot hurt—an' that's what's killin' him now—he's got gangarene, sir."
"Goin' to be a dirty night, boss, by the looks o' things," the dying tar broke in with pitiful bravado; "the wind's risin', ain't it—better shorten sail, eh?"
I put my face close to his. "Do you want a pilot, my friend?" I asked him low.
"Don't call me that," he retorted gruffly; "call me mate—I was mate on the Dolphin when that dam crowbar fell on my foot."
"Don't you want a pilot, mate?" I asked again.