Hurricane Island. H. B. Marriott Watson
not wander from the road, and, sure enough, we were advertised of our position and heralded all the way by the meagre lamps at intervals. Soon after we reached the gates, which were opened by my friend.
He peered into our faces. "It was a call, sure enough," said I, laughing. "And here's my patient."
When we got into the road the fog had slightly lifted, and I had less difficulty in picking my way home than I had anticipated. Once in the surgery, I turned up the lamp and poked the fire into a blaze, after which I looked at my companion. It was with a sense of familiarity that I recognised his face as that which I had seen flitting across the port-hole of the Sea Queen. He sat back in the chair in which I had placed him and stared weakly about the room. The steam went up from both of us.
"Look here," said I, "if we stay so, we are dead or rheumatic men"; and I went into my bedroom, changed myself, and brought him some garments of my own. These he put on, talking now in the garrulous voice I had heard on the yacht, but somewhat disconnectedly.
"It's awfully good of you … a Good Samaritan," and here a vacant laugh. "I wonder if these things. … How did I go over? I thought I was going straight. It must have been that infernal fog. … Where the dickens are we?"
"You are in my house," said I, "but you might be at the bottom of the basin."
"Good heavens!" he said, with a laugh. "I feel mighty shivery. Don't you think a drop of something——"
I looked at him closely. "I think it wouldn't be a bad idea in the circumstances," I said.
"Oh, I know I had too much to carry!" he said recklessly. "It made me quarrel with that wretched Legrand, too—a fat-headed fool!"
I rang for water, and mixed two hot jorums of whisky, one of which he sipped contentedly.
"You see, we had a rousing time coming over," he observed, as if in apology. I looked my question, and he answered it. "Hamburg, in the Sea Queen. The old man skipped at Tilbury, and Barraclough's a real blazer."
"Which accounts for the blaze I saw," I remarked drily.
"Oh, you saw that. Yes, it was that that made Legrand mad. He's particular. But what's the odds? The boss has to pay."
His eyes roamed about the shabby room—shabby from the wretched pictures on the walls to the threadbare carpet underfoot, and, though he was not a gentleman, I felt some feeling of irritation. Perhaps if he had been a gentleman I should not have been put out at this scrutiny of my poverty.
"You saved me, and that's certain," he began again. "Say, are you a doctor?"
I admitted it.
"Well, can you recommend another glass of toddy?" he asked, smiling, and his smile was pleasant.
"In the circumstances again—perhaps," I said.
"Oh, I know I played the fool," he conceded. "But it isn't often I do. I must have gone off in the fog. How did you get at me?"
I told him.
"That was plucky," he said admiringly. "I don't know two folks I'd risk the same for."
"There wasn't much risk," I answered. "It was only a question of taking a cold bath out of season."
"Well!" he said, and whistled. "There's white people everywhere, I guess. Business good?"
The question was abrupt, and I could not avoid it. "You have your answer," I replied, with a gesture at the room, and taking out my cigar-case I offered him one.
He accepted it, bit off the end, and spat it on the floor, as if preoccupied. His brow wrinkled, as if the mental exercise were unusual and difficult.
"The Sea Queen is a rum bird," he said presently, "but there's plenty of money behind. And she wants a doctor."
"Well," said I, smiling at him.
"We left a Scotch chap sick at Hamburg," he continued. "The boss is a secret beggar, with pots of money, they say. We chartered out of the Clyde, and picked him up at Hamburg—him and others."
"A pleasure yacht?" I inquired.
"You may call it that. If it ain't that I don't know what it is, and I ought to know, seeing I am purser. We've all signed on for twelve months, anyway. Now, doctor, we want a doctor."
He laughed, as if this had been a joke, and I stared at him. "You mean," said I slowly, "that I might apply."
"If it's worth your while," said he. "You know best."
"Well, I don't know about that," I replied. "It depends on a good many things."
All the same I knew that I did know best. The whole of my discontent, latent and seething for years, surged up in me. Here was the wretched practice by which I earned a miserable pittance, bad food, and low company. On the pleasure yacht I should at least walk among equals, and feel myself a civilised being. I could dispose of my goodwill for a small sum, and after twelve months—well, something might turn up. At any rate, I should have a year's respite, a year's holiday.
I looked across at the purser of the Sea Queen, with his good-looking, easy-natured face, his sleek black hair, and his rather flabby white face, and still I hesitated.
"I can make it a dead bird," he said, wagging his head, "and you'll find it pretty comfortable."
"Where are you going? The Mediterranean?" I asked.
"I haven't the least idea," he said with a frank yawn. "But if your tickets are all right you can bet on the place."
"I'm agreeable," I said, in a matter-of-fact voice.
"Good man!" said he, with some of his former sparkle of interest. "And now we'll have another to toast it, and then I must be off."
"Don't you think you'd better stay here the night?" I asked. "I can put you up. And the fog's thicker."
"Thanks, old man," he replied with easy familiarity, "I would like a roost, only I've got an engagement. I wired to some one, you know." And he winked at me wickedly.
"Very well," said I. "If you have an appointment, I would suggest that we leave over the toast."
"You're right," he said ingenuously. "But it was a nasty bath. All serene. I'll fix that up. By the way," he paused on his road to the door, "I haven't your name."
"Nor I yours," I answered. "Mine's Richard Phillimore."
"Mine's Lane," he said. "Qualified?"
"M.B. London," I replied.
"Good for you. That'll make it easier. I suppose I can go in your togs."
"You're welcome," I said, "though they don't fit you very well."
"Oh, I'm a bit smaller than you, I know, but all cats are grey in the dark, and it's infernally dark to-night! Well, so long, and I'm much obliged to you, I'm sure."
He swung out of the door with his free gait, and I stopped him.
"One word more. Who's your owner?"
"The boss? Oh, Morland—Morland, a regular millionaire."
With that he was gone.
CHAPTER II
In the "Three Tuns"
The next day I had a full round of visits to make, so that I had little time to think over the adventure of the previous evening. On Saturday I made my way, as usual, to the West End, and spent the afternoon in luxury, basking in the renewal of my self-respect. I had leisure then to reflect, and, although the more I considered the less appeared the likelihood of any advantage to myself derivable out of Lane's promise, yet I allowed myself the satisfaction of certain