ng no pains, it appeared, to choose
the spot with mercy. As for Jagger, he had snatched up his whip, and was
now raining blows on the muzzle of the dog, which had taken advantage of
the uproar to fly at his legs. In this confusion, the Captain flung open
the door and strode in. He was in a fuming rage; but, being no man to
take sides in a quarrel, sought no explanation, but took my father by
the arm and hurried him without, promising him redress, the while, at
another time. Thus presently we found ourselves once more in my
father's punt, pushing out from the side of the steamer, which was
already underway, chugging noisily.

"Hush, zur!" said Skipper Tommy to my father. "Curse him no more, zur.
The good Lard, who made us, made him, also."

My father cursed the harder.

"Stop," cried the skipper, "or I'll be cursin' him, too, zur. God made
that man, I tells you. He _must_ have gone an' made that man."

"I hopes He'll damn him, then," said I.

"God knowed what He was doin' when he made that man," the skipper
persisted, continuing in faith against his will. "I tells you I'll _not_
doubt His wisdom. He made that man ... He made that man ... He made that
man...."

To this refrain we rowed into harbour.

* * * * *

We found my mother's room made very neat, and very grand, too, I
thought, with the shaded lamp and the great armchair from the best-room
below; and my mother, now composed, but yet flushed with expectation,
was raised on many snow-white pillows, lovely in the fine gown, with one
thin hand, wherein she held a red geranium, lying placid on the
coverlet.

"I am ready, David," she said to my father.

There was the sound of footsteps in the hall below. It was Skipper
Tommy, as I knew.

"Is that he?" asked my mother. "Bring him up, David. I am quite ready."

My father still stood silent and awkward by the door of the room.

"David," said my poor mother, her voice breaking with sudden alarm,
"have you been talking much with him? What has he told you, David? I'm
not so very sick, am I?"

"Well, lass," said my father, "'tis a great season for all sorts o'
sickness--an' the doctor is sick abed hisself--an' he--couldn't--come."

"Poor man!" sighed my mother. "But he'll come ashore on the south'ard
trip."

"No, lass--no; I fear he'll not."

"Poor man!"

My mother turned her face from us. She trembled, once, and sighed, and
then lay very quiet. I knew in my childish way tha