He discovered Sandy lying on his face in the passageway, his right
hand still dutifully wielding the scrub-brush, but his spirit broken
and his courage low.
"Hello!" he exclaimed briskly; "what's your name?"
"Sandy Kilday."
"Scotch, eh?"
"Me name is. The rest of me's Irish," groaned Sandy.
"Well, Sandy, my boy, that's no way to scrub. Come out and get some
air, and then go back and do it right."
He guided Sandy's dying footsteps to the deck and propped him against
the railing. That was when he laughed.
"Not much of a sailor, eh?" he quizzed. "You'll be all right soon; we
have been getting the tail-end of a big nor'wester."
"A happy storm it must have been, sir, to wag its tail so gay," said
Sandy, trying to smile.
The doctor clapped him on the back. "You're better. Want something to
eat?"
Sandy declined with violence. He explained his feelings with all the
authority of a first experience, adding in conclusion: "It was Jonah I
used to be after feelin' sorry for; it ain't now. It's the whale."
The doctor prevailed upon him to drink some hot tea and eat a
sandwich. It was a heroic effort, but Sandy would have done even more
to prolong the friendly conversation.
"How many more days have we got, sir?"
"Five; but there's the return trip for you.
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