“I go armed and with my men armed,” said Mr. Bradbury significantly. “Let them understand this for an obvious reason, Charles. And that I have friends at hand. With whom I shall return. Come, John!”
“Nay, the boy stays by me,” my grandfather piped from his chair.
“My dear sir,” said Mr. Bradbury, taken aback.
“John stays by me! Or by God, Bradbury, I’ll—I’ll—you’ll not take away—what you take! Charles, but those words ‘Not yet!’ and there’s not a dog among ’em shall bark this night. Am I not master yet? Am I not, Bradbury?”
He grew so violent, the blood rushing to his face, the sweat starting from him, that Mr. Bradbury hastened to pacify him. “Surely, sir, surely,” he said, “Mr. John will stay, if you’ll have it so.”
“I’ll have it so! Hark ’ee, John, are you afraid to watch the night through with me?”
“I’m not afraid,” I lied. “To be sure I’ll stay!”—though I was shaking in my shoes, and would have given much to be out of the house with Mr. Bradbury.
He nodded approval. He muttered, “Bradbury, I’ve thought to die on a night like this! To go out on the storm. Hark to the wind and the voices in it! And the wind blows from the sea. Oh, God, there’s many a soul of the dead men out of the sea rides with the wind to-night!”
“Sir,” cried Mr. Bradbury, shuddering, “the dead shall not rise from the sea till the last trump sound!”
“I’ll have the boy by me,” the old man whispered. “I’ll have him watch. I’ll lie upon my bed; I’ll rest—if he’ll watch by me.”