'Come here,' said David, signing to the girl with the letter. 'Can you read what is in writing?'
'To be sure I can.'
'Written words, not printed?'
'I can.'
'Make out this, will you. We are all friends here. There—that line; I can get hold of the sense of the rest of it—or nigh, about.'
Winefred read: 'At eleven o'clock on Thursday night, Heathfield Cross.'
'That will do,' said David Nutall, snatching the letter from her. 'Tell the cap'n we shall be there. No more. We shall be there. That is the answer. Take this.'
The old man offered her two shillings.
'No,' said she, 'mother never takes alms. She earns.'
'Well, and you have earned this—as carrying a letter.'