“Yes,” said Fraser, turning somewhat red. “Very bad news.”
He fixed his eyes on the ground, and, in a spasmodic fashion, made perfect by practice, recited the disaster.
“Pore feller,” said Mrs. Wheeler, when he had finished. “Pore feller, and cut down suddenly like that. I s’pose he ’adn’t made any preparation for it?”
“Not a bit,” said the mate, starting, “quite unprepared.”
“You didn’t jump over after him?” suggested Miss Wheeler, softly.
“I did not,” said the mate, firmly; whereupon Miss Wheeler, who was fond of penny romance, sighed and shook her head.
“There’s that pore gal upstairs,” said Mrs. Wheeler, sorrowfully, “all innocent and happy, probably expecting him to come to-night and take her out. Emma’d better go up and break it to ’er.”
“I will,” said Fraser, shortly.
“Better to let a woman do it,” said Mrs. Wheeler. “When our little Jemmy smashed his finger we sent Emma down to break it to his father and bring ’im ’ome. It was ever so long before she let you know the truth, wasn’t it, father?”
“Made me think all sorts of things with her mysteries,” said the dutiful Mr. Wheeler, in triumphant corroboration. “First of all she made me think you was dead; then I thought you was all dead—give me such a turn they ’ad to give me brandy to bring me round. When I found out it was only Jemmy’s finger, I was nearly off my ’ed with joy.”