Mrs. Gannett fumbled in her pocket again, and producing a small handkerchief applied it delicately to her eyes.
“I—I got rid of it for your sake,” she stammered. “It used to tell such lies about you. I couldn’t bear to listen to it.”
“About me!” said Mr. Gannett, sinking into his seat and staring at his wife with very natural amazement. “Tell lies about me! Nonsense! How could it?”
“I suppose it could tell me about you as easily as it could tell you about me?” said Mrs. Gannett. “There was more magic in that bird than you thought, Jem. It used to say shocking things about you. I couldn’t bear it.”
“Do you think you’re talking to a child or a fool?” demanded the engineer.
Mrs. Gannett shook her head feebly. She still kept the handkerchief to her eyes, but allowed a portion to drop over her mouth.
“I should like to hear some of the stories it told about me—if you can remember them,” said the engineer with bitter sarcasm.
“The first lie,” said Mrs. Gannett in a feeble but ready voice, “was about the time you were at Genoa. The parrot said you were at some concert gardens at the upper end of the town.”
One moist eye coming mildly from behind the handkerchief saw the engineer stiffen suddenly in his chair.
“I don’t suppose there even is such a place,” she continued.
“I—b’leve—there—is,” said her husband jerkily. “I’ve heard—our chaps—talk of it.”
“But you haven’t been there?” said his wife anxiously.
“Never!” said the engineer with extraordinary vehemence.
“That wicked bird said that you got intoxicated there,” said Mrs. Gannett in solemn accents, “that you smashed a little marble-topped table and knocked down two waiters, and that if it hadn’t been for the captain of the Pursuit, who was in there and who got you away, you’d have been locked up. Wasn’t it a wicked bird?”
“Horrible!” said the engineer huskily.
“I don’t suppose there ever was a ship called the Pursuit,” continued Mrs. Gannett.
“Doesn’t sound like a ship’s name,” murmured Mr. Gannett.
“Well, then, a few days later it said the Curlew was at Naples.”
“I never went ashore all the time we were at Naples,” remarked the engineer casually.
“The parrot said you did,” said Mrs. Gannett.
“I suppose you’ll believe your own lawful husband before that damned bird?” shouted Gannett, starting up.
“Of course I didn’t believe it, Jem,” said his wife. “I’m trying to prove to you that the bird was not truthful, but you’re so hard to persuade.”
Mr. Gannett took a pipe from his pocket, and with a small knife dug with much severity and determination a hardened plug from the bowl, and blew noisily through the stem.
“There was a girl kept a fruit-stall just by the harbour,” said Mrs. Gannett, “and on this evening, on the strength of having bought three-pennyworth of green figs, you put your arm round her waist and tried to kiss her, and her sweetheart, who was standing close by, tried to stab you. The parrot said that you were in such a state of terror that you jumped into the harbour and were nearly drowned.”
Mr. Gannett having loaded his pipe lit it slowly and carefully, and with tidy precision got up and deposited the match in the fireplace.
“It used to frighten me so with its stories that I hardly knew what to do with myself,” continued Mrs. Gannett “When you were at Suez—”
The engineer waved his hand imperiously.
“That’s enough,” he said stiffly.
“I’m sure I don’t want to have to repeat what it told me about Suez,” said his wife. “I thought you’d like to hear it, that’s all.”
“Not at all,” said the engineer, puffing at his pipe. “Not at all.”
“But you see why I got rid of the bird, don’t you?” said Mrs. Gannett. “If it had told you untruths about me, you would have believed them, wouldn’t you?”
Mr. Gannett took his pipe from his mouth and took his wife in his extended arms. “No, my dear,” he said brokenly, “no more than you believe all this stuff about me.”
“And I did quite right to sell it, didn’t I, Jem?”
“Quite right,” said Mr. Gannett with a great assumption of heartiness. “Best thing to do with it.”
“You haven’t heard the worst yet,” said Mrs. Gannett. “When you were at Suez—”
Mr. Gannett consigned Suez to its only rival, and thumping the table with his clenched fist, forbade his wife to mention the word again, and desired her to prepare supper.
Not until he heard his wife moving about in the kitchen below did he relax the severity of his countenance. Then his expression changed to one of extreme anxiety, and he restlessly paced the room seeking for light. It came suddenly.
“Jenkins,” he gasped, “Jenkins and Mrs. Cluffins, and I was going to tell Cluffins about him writing to his wife. I expect he knows the letter by heart.”
MONEY CHANGERS
Tain’t no use waiting any longer,” said Harry Pilchard, looking over the side of the brig towards the Tower stairs. “‘E’s either waiting for the money or else ‘e’s a-spending of it. Who’s coming ashore?”
“Give ‘im another five minutes, Harry,” said another seaman persuasively; “it ‘ud be uncommon ‘ard on ‘im if ‘e come aboard and then ‘ad to go an’ get another ship’s crew to ‘elp ‘im celebrate it.”
“‘Ard on us too,” said the cook honestly. “There he is!”
The other glanced up at a figure waving to them from the stairs. “‘E wants the boat,” he said, moving aft.
“No ‘e don’t, Steve,” piped the boy. “‘E’s waving you not to. He’s coming in the waterman’s skiff.”
“Ha! same old tale,” said the seaman wisely. “Chap comes in for a bit o’ money and begins to waste it directly. There’s threepence gone; clean chucked away. Look at ‘im. Just look at him!”
“‘E’s got the money all right,” said the cook, “there’s no doubt about that. Why, ‘e looks ‘arf as large again as ‘e did this morning.”
The crew bent over the side as the skiff approached, and the fare, who had been leaning back in the stern with a severely important air, rose slowly and felt in his trousers-pocket.
“There’s sixpence for you, my lad,” he said pompously. “Never mind about the change.”
“All right, old slack-breeches,” said the waterman with effusive good-fellowship: “up you get.”
Three pairs of hands assisted the offended fare on board, and the boy hovering round him slapped his legs vigorously.
“Wot are you up to?” demanded Mr. Samuel Dodds, A.B., turning on him.
“Only dusting you down, Sam,” said the boy humbly.
“You got the money all right, I s’pose, Sammy?” said Steve Martin.
Mr. Dodds nodded and slapped his breastpocket.
“Right as ninepence,” he replied genially. “I’ve been with my lawyer all the arternoon, pretty near. ‘E’s a nice feller.”
“‘Ow much is it, Sam?” inquired Pilchard eagerly.
“One ‘undred and seventy-three pun seventeen shillings an’ ten pence,” said the heir, noticing with much pleasure the effect of his announcement.
“Say it agin, Sam,” said Pilchard in awed tones.
Mr. Dodds, with a happy laugh, obliged him. “If you’ll all come down the foc’sle,” he continued, “I’ve got a bundle o’ cigars an’ a drop o’ something short in my pocket.”
“Let’s ‘ave a look at the money, Sam,” said Pilchard when the cigars were alight.
“Ah, let’s ‘ave a look at it,” said Steve.
Mr. Dodds laughed again, and, producing a small canvas bag from his pocket, dusted the table with his big palm, and spread out a roll of banknotes and a little pile of gold and silver. It was an impressive sight, and the cook breathed so hard that one note fluttered off the table. Three men dived to recover it, while Sam, alive for the first time to the responsibilities of wealth, anxiously watched the remainder of his capital.
“There’s something for you to buy sweets with, my lad,” he said, restored to good-humour as the note was replaced.
He passed over a small coin, and regarded with tolerant good-humour the extravagant manifestation of joy on the part of the youth which followed. He capered joyously for a minute or two, and than taking it to the foot of the steps, where the light was better, bit it ecstatically.
“How much is it?” inquired the wondering Steve. “You do chuck your money about, Sam.”
“On’y sixpence,” said Sam, laughing. “I expect if it ‘ad been a shillin’ it ‘ud ha’ turned his brain.”
“It ain’t a sixpence,” said the boy indignantly. “It’s ‘arf a suvrin’.”
“‘Arf a wot?” exclaimed Mr. Dodds with a sudden change of manner.
“‘Arf a suvrin’,” repeated the boy with nervous rapidity; “and thank-you very much, Sam, for your generosity. If everybody was like you we should all be the better for it The world ‘ud be a different place to live in,” concluded the youthful philosopher.
Mr. Dodd’s face under these fulsome praises was a study in conflicting emotions. “Well, don’t waste it,” he said at length, and hastily gathering up the remainder stowed it in the bag.
“What are you going to do with it all, Sam?” inquired Harry.
“I ain’t made up my mind yet,” said Mr. Dodds deliberately. “I ‘ave thought of ‘ouse property.”
“I don’t mean that,” said the other. “I mean, wot are you going to do with it now, to take care of it?”
“Why, keep it in my pocket,” said Sam, staring.
“Well, if I was you,” said Harry impressively, “I should ask the skipper to take care of it for me. You know wot you are when you’re a bit on, Sam.”
“Wot d’ yer mean?” demanded Mr. Dodds hotly.
“I mean,” said Harry hastily, “that you’ve got sich a generous nature that when you’ve ‘ad a glass or two you’re just as likely as not to give it away to somebody.”
“I know what I’m about,” said Mr. Dodds with conviction. “I’m not goin’ to get on while I’ve got this about me. I’m just goin’ round to the ‘Bull’s Head,’ but I shan’t drink anything to speak of myself. Anybody that likes to come t’ave anything at my expense is welcome.”
A flattering murmur, which was music to Mr. Dodds’ ear, arose from his shipmates as they went on deck and hauled the boat alongside. The boy was first in her, and pulling out his pocket-handkerchief ostentatiously wiped down a seat for Mr. Dodds.
“Understand,” said that gentleman, with whom the affair of the half-sovereign still rankled, “your drink is shandygaff.”
They returned to the brig at eleven o’clock, Mr. Dodds slumbering peacefully in the stern of the boat, propped up on either side by Steve and the boy.
His sleep was so profound that he declined to be aroused, and was hoisted over the side with infinite difficulty and no little risk by his shipmates.
“Look at ‘im,” said Harry, as they lowered him down the forecastle. “What ‘ud ha’ become of ‘im if we hadn’t been with ‘im? Where would ‘is money ha’ been?”
“He’ll lose it as sure as eggs is heggs,” said Steve, regarding him intently. “Bear a hand to lift ‘im in his bunk, Harry.”
Harry complied, their task being rendered somewhat difficult by a slight return of consciousness in Mr. Dodds’ lower limbs, which, spreading themselves out fan wise, defied all attempts to pack them in the bunk.
“Let ‘em hang out then,” said Harry savagely, wiping a little mud from his face. “Fancy that coming in for a fortin.”
“‘E won’t ‘ave it long,” said the cook, shaking his head.
“Wot ‘e wants is a shock,” said Harry. “‘Ow’d it be when he wakes up to tell ‘im he’s lost all ‘is money?”
“Wot’s the good o’ telling ‘im,” demanded the cook, “when ‘e’s got it in his pocket?”
“Well, let’s take it out,” said Pilchard. “I’ll hide it under my piller, and let him think he’s ‘ad his pocket picked.”
“I won’t ‘ave nothing to do with it,” said Steve peremptorily. “I don’t believe in sich games.”
“Wot do you think, cook?” inquired Harry.
“I don’t see no ‘arm in it,” said the cook slowly; “the fright might do ‘im good, p’raps.”
“It might be the saving of ‘im,” said Harry. He leaned over the sleeping seaman, and, gently inserting his fingers in his breast-pocket, drew out the canvas bag. “There it is, chaps,” he said gaily; “an’ I’ll give ‘im sich a fright in the morning as he won’t forget in a ‘urry.”
He retired to his bunk, and placing the bag under his pillow, was soon fast asleep. The other men followed his example, and Steve extinguishing the lamp, the forecastle surrendered itself to sleep.
At five o’clock they were awakened by the voice of Mr. Dodds. It was a broken, disconnected sort of voice at first, like to that of a man talking in his sleep; but as Mr. Dodds’ head cleared his ideas cleared with it, and in strong, forcible language straight from the heart he consigned the eyes and limbs of some person or persons unknown to every variety of torment; after which, in a voice broken with emotion, he addressed himself in terms of heartbreaking sympathy.
“Shut up, Sam,” said Harry in a sleepy voice. “Why can’t you go to sleep?”
“Sleep be ‘anged,” said Mr. Dodds tearfully. “I’ve lorst all my money.”
“You’re dreamin’,” said Harry lightly; “pinch yourself.”
Mr. Dodds, who had a little breath left and a few words still comparatively fresh, bestowed them upon him.
“I tell you you haven’t lorst it,” said Harry. “Don’t you remember giving it to that red-’aired woman with a baby?”
“Wot?” said the astounded Mr. Dodds.
“You give it to ‘er an’ told ‘er to buy the baby a bun with it,” continued the veracious Mr. Pilchard.
“Told ‘er to buy the baby a bun with it?” repeated Mr. Dodds in a dazed voice. “Told ‘er to– Wot did you let me do it for? Wot was all you chaps standin’ by an’ doin’ to let me go an’ do it for?”
“We did arsk you not to,” said Steve, joining in the conversation.
Mr. Dodds finding language utterly useless to express his burning thoughts, sat down and madly smashed at the table with his fists.
“Wot was you a-doin’ to let me do it?” he demanded at length of the boy. “You ungrateful little toad. You can give me that ‘arf-suvrin back, d’ye hear?”
“I can’t,” said the boy. “I followed your example, and give it to the red-’aired woman to buy the baby another bun with.”
There was a buzzing noise in Mr. Dodds’ head, and the bunks and their grinning occupants went round and round.
“‘Ere, ‘old up, Sam,” said Pilchard, shaking him in alarm. “It’s all right; don’t be a fool. I’ve got the money.”
Sam stared at him blankly.
“I’ve got the money,” repeated the seaman.
Mr. Dodds’ colour came back.
“How’d you get it?” he inquired.
“I took it out of your pocket last night just to give you a lesson,” said Harry severely. “Don’t you never be so silly agin, Sam.”
“Gimme my money,” said Mr. Dodds, glaring at him.
“You might ha’ lorst it, you see, Sam,” continued his benefactor; “if I could take it, anybody else could. Let this be a lesson to you.”
“If you don’t grimme my money–” began Sam violently.
“It’s no good trying to do ‘im a kindness,” said Harry to the others as he turned to his bunk. “He can go an’ lose it for all I care.”
He put his hand in his bunk, and then with a sudden exclamation searched somewhat hastily amongst the bedding. Mr. Dodds, watching him with a scowl, saw him take every article separately out of his bunk, and then sink down appalled on the locker.
“You’ve took it, Sam—ain’t—you?” he gasped.
“Look ‘ere,” said Mr. Dodds, with ominous quietness, “when you’ve done your little game.”
“It’s gone,” said Harry in a scared voice; “somebody’s taken it.”
“Look ‘ere, ‘Arry, give ‘im his money,” said Steve impatiently; “a joke’s a joke, but we don’t want too much of it.”
“I ain’t got it,” said Harry, trembling. “Sure as I stand ‘ere it’s gone. I took it out of your pocket, and put it under my piller. You saw me, didn’t you, Steve?”
“Yes, and I told you not to,” said Steve. “Let this be a warning to you not to try and teach lessons to people wot don’t want ‘em.”
“I’m going to the police-station to give ‘im in charge,” said Mr. Dodds fiercely; “that’s wot I’m goin’ to do.”
“For the Lord’s sake don’t do that, Sam,” said Pilchard, clutching him by the coat.
“‘Arry ain’t made away with it, Sam,” said Steve. “I saw somebody take it out of his bunk while he was asleep.”
“Why didn’t you stop him?” cried Harry, starting up.
“I didn’t like to interfere,” said Steve simply; “but I saw where he went to.”
“Where?” demanded Mr. Dodds wildly. “Where?”
“He went straight up on deck,” said Steve slowly, “walked aft, and then down into the cabin. The skipper woke up, and I heard ‘im say something to him.”
“Say something to ‘im?” repeated the bewildered Dodds. “Wot was it?”
“Well, I ‘ardly like to repeat it,” said Steve, hesitating.
“Wot was it?” roared the overwrought Mr. Dodds.
“Well, I ‘eard this chap say something,” said Steve slowly, “and then I heard the skipper’s voice. But I don’t like to repeat wot ‘e said, I reely don’t.”
“Wot was it?” roared Mr. Dodds, approaching him with clenched fist.
“Well, if you will have it,” said Steve, with a little cough, “the old man said to me, ‘Well done, Steve,’ he ses, ‘you’re the only sensible man of the whole bilin’ lot. Sam’s a fool,’ ‘e ses, ‘and ‘Arrys worse, an’ if it wasn’t for men like you, Steve, life wouldn’t be worth living.’ The skipper’s got it now, Sam, and ‘e’s goin’ to give it to your wife to take care of as soon as we get home.”
THE LOST SHIP
On a fine spring morning in the early part of the present century, Tetby, a small port on the east coast, was keeping high holiday. Tradesmen left their shops, and labourers their work, and flocked down to join the maritime element collected on the quay.
In the usual way Tetby was a quiet, dull little place, clustering in a tiny heap of town on one side of the river, and perching in scattered red-tiled cottages on the cliffs of the other.
Now, however, people were grouped upon the stone quay, with its litter of fish-baskets and coils of rope, waiting expectantly, for to-day the largest ship ever built in Tetby, by Tetby hands, was to start upon her first voyage.
As they waited, discussing past Tetby ships, their builders, their voyages, and their fate, a small piece of white sail showed on the noble barque from her moorings up the river. The groups on the quay grew animated as more sail was set, and in a slow and stately fashion the new ship drew near. As the light breeze took her sails she came faster, sitting the water like a duck, her lofty masts tapering away to the sky as they broke through the white clouds of canvas. She passed within ten fathoms of the quay, and the men cheered and the women held their children up to wave farewell, for she was manned from captain to cabin boy by Tetby men, and bound for the distant southern seas.
Outside the harbour she altered her course somewhat and bent, like a thing of life, to the wind blowing outside. The crew sprang into the rigging and waved their caps, and kissed their grimy hands to receding Tetby. They were answered by rousing cheers from the shore, hoarse and masculine, to drown the lachrymose attempts of the women.
They watched her until their eyes were dim, and she was a mere white triangular speck on the horizon. Then, like a melting snowflake, she vanished into air, and the Tetby folk, some envying the bold mariners, and others thankful that their lives were cast upon the safe and pleasant shore, slowly dispersed to their homes.
Months passed, and the quiet routine of Tetby went on undisturbed. Other craft came into port and, discharging and loading in an easy, comfortable fashion, sailed again. The keel of another ship was being laid in the shipyard, and slowly the time came round when the return of Tetby’s Pride, for so she was named, might be reasonably looked for.
It was feared that she might arrive in the night—the cold and cheerless night, when wife and child were abed, and even if roused to go down on to the quay would see no more of her than her side-lights staining the water, and her dark form stealing cautiously up the river. They would have her come by day. To see her first on that horizon, into which she had dipped and vanished. To see her come closer and closer, the good stout ship seasoned by southern seas and southern suns, with the crew crowding the sides to gaze at Tetby, and see how the children had grown.
But she came not. Day after day the watchers waited for her in vain. It was whispered at length that she was overdue, and later on, but only by those who had neither kith nor kin aboard of her, that she was missing.
Long after all hope had gone wives and mothers, after the manner of their kind, watched and waited on the cheerless quay. One by one they stayed away, and forgot the dead to attend to the living. Babes grew into sturdy, ruddy-faced boys and girls, boys and girls into young men and women, but no news of the missing ship, no word from the missing men. Slowly year succeeded year, and the lost ship became a legend. The man who had built her was old and grey, and time had smoothed away the sorrows of the bereaved.
It was on a dark, blustering September night that an old woman sat by her fire knitting. The fire was low, for it was more for the sake of company than warmth, and it formed an agreeable contrast to the wind which whistled round the house, bearing on its wings the sound of the waves as they came crashing ashore.
“God help those at sea to-night,” said the old woman devoutly, as a stronger gust than usual shook the house.
She put her knitting in her lap and clasped her hands, and at that moment the cottage door opened. The lamp flared and smoked up the chimney with the draught, and then went out. As the old woman rose from her seat the door closed.
“Who’s there?” she cried nervously.
Her eyes were dim and the darkness sudden, but she fancied she saw something standing by the door, and snatching a spill from the mantelpiece she thrust it into the fire, and relit the lamp.
A man stood on the threshold, a man of middle age, with white drawn face and scrubby beard. His clothes were in rags, his hair unkempt, and his light grey eyes sunken and tired.
The old woman looked at him, and waited for him to speak. When he did so he took a step towards her, and said—
“Mother!”
With a great cry she threw herself upon his neck and strained him to her withered bosom, and kissed him. She could not believe her eyes, her senses, but clasped him convulsively, and bade him speak again, and wept, and thanked God, and laughed all in a breath.
Then she remembered herself, and led him tottering to the old Windsor chair, thrust him in it, and quivering with excitement took food and drink from the cupboard and placed them before him. He ate hungrily, the old woman watching him, and standing by his side to keep his glass filled with the home-brewed beer. At times he would have spoken, but she motioned him to silence and bade him eat, the tears coursing down her aged cheeks as she looked at his white famished face.
At length he laid down his knife and fork, and drinking off the ale, intimated that he had finished.
“My boy, my boy,” said the old woman in a broken voice, “I thought you had gone down with Tetby’s Pride long years ago.”
He shook his head heavily.
“The captain and crew, and the good ship,” asked his mother. “Where are they?”
“Captain—and—crew,” said the son, in a strange hesitating fashion; “it is a long story—the ale has made me heavy. They are—”
He left off abruptly and closed his eyes.
“Where are they?” asked his mother. “What happened?”
He opened his eyes slowly.
“I—am—tired—dead tired. I have not—slept. I’ll tell—you—morning.”
He nodded again, and the old woman shook him gently.
“Go to bed then. Your old bed, Jem. It’s as you left it, and it’s made and the sheets aired. It’s been ready for you ever since.”
He rose to his feet, and stood swaying to and fro. His mother opened a door in the wall, and taking the lamp lighted him up the steep wooden staircase to the room he knew so well. Then he took her in his arms in a feeble hug, and kissing her on the forehead sat down wearily on the bed.
The old woman returned to her kitchen, and falling upon her knees remained for some time in a state of grateful, pious ecstasy. When she arose she thought of those other women, and, snatching a shawl from its peg behind the door, ran up the deserted street with her tidings.
In a very short time the town was astir. Like a breath of hope the whisper flew from house to house. Doors closed for the night were thrown open, and wondering children questioned their weeping mothers. Blurred images of husbands and fathers long since given over for dead stood out clear and distinct, smiling with bright faces upon their dear ones.
At the cottage door two or three people had already collected, and others were coming up the street in an unwonted bustle.
They found their way barred by an old woman,—a resolute old woman, her face still working with the great joy which had come into her old life, but who refused them admittance until her son had slept. Their thirst for news was uncontrollable, but with a swelling in her throat she realised that her share in Tetby’s Pride was safe.
Women who had waited, and got patient at last after years of waiting, could not endure these additional few hours. Despair was endurable, but suspense! “Ah, God! Was their man alive? What did he look like? Had he aged much?”
“He was so fatigued he could scarce speak,” said she. She had questioned him, but he was unable to reply. Give him but till the dawn, and they should know all.
So they waited, for to go home and sleep was impossible. Occasionally they moved a little way up the street, but never very far, and gathering in small knots excitedly discussed the great event It came to be understood that the rest of the crew had been cast away on an uninhabited island, it could be nothing else, and would doubtlessly soon be with them; all except one or two perhaps, who were old men when the ship sailed, and had probably died in the meantime. One said this in the hearing of an old woman whose husband, if alive, would be in extreme old age, but she smiled peacefully, albeit her lip trembled, and said she only expected to hear of him, that was all.
The suspense became almost unendurable. “Would this man never awake? Would it never be dawn?” The children were chilled with the wind, but their elders would scarcely have felt an Arctic frost With growing impatience they waited, glancing at times at two women who held themselves somewhat aloof from the others; two women who had married again, and whose second husbands waited, awkwardly enough, with them.
Slowly the weary windy night wore away, the old woman, deaf to their appeals, still keeping her door fast. The dawn was not yet, though the oft-consulted watches announced it near at hand. It was very close now, and the watchers collected by the door. It was undeniable that things were seen a little more distinctly. One could see better the grey, eager faces of his neighbours.
They knocked upon the door, and the old woman’s eyes filled as she opened it and saw those faces. Unasked and unchid they invaded the cottage and crowded round the door.
“I will go up and fetch him,” said the old woman.
If each could have heard the beating of the others’ hearts, the noise would have been deafening, but as it was there was complete silence, except for some overwrought woman’s sob.
The old woman opened the door leading to the room above, and with the slow, deliberate steps of age ascended the stairs, and those below heard her calling softly to her son.
Two or three minutes passed and she was heard descending the stairs again—alone. The smile, the pity, had left her face, and she seemed dazed and strange.
“I cannot wake him,” she said piteously. “He sleeps so sound. He is fatigued. I have shaken him, but he still sleeps.”
As she stopped, and looked appealingly round, the other old woman took her hand, and pressing it led her to a chair. Two of the men sprang quickly up the stairs. They were absent but a short while, and then they came down like men bewildered and distraught. No need to speak. A low wail of utter misery rose from the women, and was caught up and repeated by the crowd outside, for the only man who could have set their hearts at rest had escaped the perils of the deep, and died quietly in his bed.
THE END.
January 1899.