“I hope,” said Gervase, “that this time it means business and not more speech. And I think it does. Bring us the news, Master Douglas, that you are to lift your anchor, and I´ll not forget you as long as I live.”
“Please Heaven, you may look for your night-cap in Derry to-night.”
“With a sound head to put it in.”
“The boat is waiting, and so is the General,” added the mate.
The captain hurried out of the round-house, and Gervase and the mate sat down to finish their midday meal with but little appetite for their repast. The conversation between them flagged, and then the mate went out and presently returned with his prayer-book under his arm, from which he began to read in a low monotonous tone, following the words, like a backward schoolboy, with his forefinger. He never looked up but sat with his rough unkempt head bent over the book.
Half an hour passed in this way, when they heard the sound of the boat alongside and the Captain´s voice shouting to get the mainsail set.
Presently he burst into the cabin, his face all glowing with excitement and his small blue eyes dancing in his head. He ran forward and caught Gervase in both his arms, “It´s come at last, dear lad, ´tis come at last. Your speech hath done it, and we´ll moor by the quay to-night with the blessing of God. This is no time for books, McKeller, no time for books. The Lord be praised! We´re up the river in an hour. Browning and myself and the old Dartmouth, with Leake to give us the lead.”
Gervase and McKeller were on their feet shaking one another by the hand. They could hardly believe the good news. Then, overcome by his feelings so long pent up, Gervase burst into tears and sobbed aloud. The captain stood aghast, but the mate laid his hand on the young fellow´s shoulder and said with rugged kindliness: “I like you all the better for your tears, Mr. Orme; you have shown that you can do a man´s work, with a man´s heart under your jacket; ´twill do you good,--rain on the parched grass, as the book has it. Now, you old sea dog, what are you staring at? Go on with your story and let us know what we have to do.”
“I´ll clap you in irons for a rank mutineer,” laughed the captain. “Lord love you, when I got aboard Kirke was like a lamb; not a damn in him, but all ‘By your leave´ and ‘At your pleasure´. The council of officers had resolved to attack the passage that afternoon, the wind and the tide being favourable, and the messenger, that being you, Mr. Orme, having brought news that rendered their instant moving imperative, and more stuff of that kind. I could have laughed in his face, but for the cruel white and red in his eye. I don´t like a man to have too much white in his eye.”
“Go on with your story.”