"Did you get him in, sir—did you get my father in?" were the first words that greeted me as little Tim's eyes leaped to mine.
"Yes, my boy—yes, please God, your father will get in," though I could hardly speak for the tears that choked me, so full of elemental power was the pleading of the child.
"Come, Nancy," and the old tar's voice was very tender; "come close up beside me. My foot ain't hurtin', Nancy—an' my heart ain't hurtin'—nothin's hurtin' any more. I've cast anchor."
"What d'ye say, Gus?" his wife asked in a wondering voice.
"I've cast anchor—where the preacher read. You'll leave the book, sir?" his voice swelling for a moment—"an' you're sure ye marked the place?"
"Yes," I said, "I'll leave it—and it's marked."
"Call me mate," the strange impulse prompting him again.
"I marked it, mate—and I turned down the page."
"Then sing me that again—that bit about the gale."
"What gale, mate?"