“There is water in that can; give me a drink.”
When he had drunk he asked me to lift the dog, that he might pat his head. He feebly, with a pale, thin hand, touched the ears of the poor beast; and as he did so, I thought of that time when I lay in a hammock, trembling and helpless, with a weakness as of death, and when he had lifted Galloon that I might kiss the dog that had saved my life.
“Who has the watch?”
“Bol, sir.”
“Will you write for me, Fielding?”
“Anything will I do for you.”
I seated myself at the little table that was near his bunk. It was furnished with ink and quills. I opened a drawer and found paper, and waited for him to speak.
“Tulp shall not have my money,” said he; “the old rogue is rich, and he has a noble share in what is below. Too much—too much. And yet it was his venture. Let me be reasonable. He shall not have one dollar of my money, by God! If I die, and the money goes home, he will take it. I would see him damned before he touched a dollar of my money. Hasn’t he enough?”
“More than enough.”
“I will leave the money to the memory of my mother. The thought comforts me. I was her only child—I left her very young; I was not to her as I should have been. Write, Fielding.”