“What’s the matter, Mart? Feeling worse?” he inquired, anxiously.
But Gandy made no reply. He covered his face with his one available arm, and Reube could perceive his thin lips working strangely. Having seen that he was as comfortable as he knew how to make him, Reube seated himself by Will in the stern. Save for a few chance and commonplace remarks, there was silence between the two comrades for an hour, while the Dido sped merrily homeward. They had enough to occupy their thoughts in that day’s adventures, but they did not wish to talk of what their captive could hardly like to hear about. At last Will remarked:
“It’s warm, Reube, and your patient must be thirsty.”
“That’s so,” said Reube, springing up. With a tin of fresh water he stepped over to Gandy’s side, slipped an arm under his head to raise it, and said:
“Here, Mart, take a sup to cool your lips. They look parched.”
Instead of complying, Gandy grasped and clung to the hand that held the cup.
“Forgive me,” he begged. “Reube Dare, forgive me. I never knowed what I was doin’. To think of all I’ve done to you, an’ then you to treat me like this!” And he covered his face again.
“Mart,” said Reube, more moved than he was willing to let appear, “never mind about that now. We’ll let bygones be bygones. Here’s my hand on it.” And he grasped the hand that hid Mart’s eyes.
In his weakness Gandy was so overcome that he tried to laugh just while he was struggling not to cry, and he made a poor mixture of the attempt. But, raising himself for a second on his elbow, he managed to murmur unsteadily:
“I can’t talk, but, ’fore God, I’ll show you both what I think of yous.”